


Bleeding Darkness

by Keitmeg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark Derek, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Epileptic Stiles - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hypnosis, Killer and Prey, Light BDSM, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mind Games, Minor Dehydration and Starvation, Orgasm Denial, Pharmacological Torture, Plot Twists, Psychopath Derek, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Seizures, Slow Build, Temporary Mind Break, Timeskip, defloration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 113,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keitmeg/pseuds/Keitmeg
Summary: [“Your body,” Derek whispers in a silvery voice that makes Stiles' entire body quiver with something, dare he say, exciting. “I need only think of it and I’m hard again.”]





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChrisMilligan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisMilligan/gifts).



 

 

  
Scott’s childhood friend, Stiles, has epilepsy.

Stiles’ normal life took a swan dive for the worse when he turned seventeen and suffered a severe head injury in a car crash. Now he’s twenty-one years old, and he has to take antiepileptic/anti-seizure drugs for the rest of his life.

Despite the new-fangled burdens that tag along with having his body convulse randomly, Stiles always keeps his game face on, never allowing disheartening thoughts to change his mindset. As his childhood friend puts it, he has a mysterious touch to him. Sometimes he doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and he keeps to himself. But that only happens on occasions; the rest of the time, he’s sociable, easy to approach, and a joy to have around. It’s probably why Scott’s closest friends decided to take him along on their little road trip towards the capital.

At first, it was Boyd’s idea; and, seeing that they finally had a rest from the long terms of college’s stressful days, he called for an adventure in a rented van. He told his friends, including Scott, that next weekend their favorite band will be performing at the capital, and they would have fun sightseeing the cities before they arrived at their destination. It is a win-win situation. The rest of the friends: Erica, Isaac, and Lydia all agreed, except for Scott who tried to reason with his friends to go without him. They are all close, even if Stiles doesn’t get along with them. He only bore with their company for Scott’s sake, and the latter has known that all along. To any ordinary onlookers, Stiles would come across as that one person who is either cold or disliked, an introvert so to speak. But that’s not the case, at least as far as Scott believes. It’s just, ever since the accident, Stiles has... matured, remarkably so. But even considering the idea of ditching their friend, Scott, seemed outrageous as they insisted he tags along.

When Scott told them he promised his childhood friend that he’d take him somewhere, they suggested it’s all the more reason to come because they could all go together. When he offered the idea to Stiles, the young man became excited because he has never been outside his town, so it sounded quite appealing.

He was advised by his father to take all his medications and toiletry kit, which he thought was absurd; being epileptic for over four years kind of makes you an expert at drills like these.

The next day, Scott and Stiles stand by the latter’s doorstep, waiting for the rental to come into view. After minutes of waiting, a beat-up white van finally drives into their neighborhood, weighed by five of Scott’s friends. Much to Stiles’ chagrin, the most obnoxious and big-mouthed guy, who just won’t stop rubbing him the wrong way, Jackson, is here to prove Stiles how disappointing his luck is. The childhood friends greet them after stuffing their bags into the trunk.

Scott’s friends, even Jackson, knew all along about Stiles’ medical condition and the side effects of his drugs. They also know about all the possible triggers that might initiate his seizures, so they promised to keep their heads up.

 

The ride is fun. Stiles finally has a proper chance to speak to some of Scott’s friends, even the ones that are notorious for having a real mean-streak and a hard penchant for punching anything that dares to check them up.

Stiles appreciates the company.

  
It’s around nine in the evening when Isaac, the one who’s been driving, calls it a close quit after they fill up the van at the next gas station. Erica is riding gunshot and switching between stations for some music to her liking, which, mind you, she still doesn’t find. Lydia is reading a magazine and Boyd is in the backseat with Jackson, smoking trashy pot and hollering at any passing cars like your regular teen stoners under the bleachers. Now, the only problem Scott has with those two inhaling burned weed at the very back is their inconsideration towards his friend’s health. First, it’s August. The roads are roasted outside by now because the heat is hotter than the concrete can handle. They turned the AC on in the car at some point because of  _that_  heat. Secondly, they can’t smoke with the windows closed; but if they open them, some of the heat will come in and irritate Stiles. It’s never been an issue, and it’s not going to be now, but Scott likes to play it safe. Besides, Marijuana is just another type of drug. Inhaling marijuana is the same as using it, and using drugs will trigger his seizures. So because of Stiles’ anti-seizure side effects, Scott rules out his friend’s pretty rough ride.

Erica reads their next destination off her paper map, and she tells Isaac to take the next detour onto the dirt road. The three in the backseat fell asleep after having exhausted themselves. Lydia does the same too since everything is pitch black outside. There is nothing that breaks the visual monotony of dark outlines; hardly fascinating stuff.

Stiles is propping on the door handle by his forearm, temple on the glass. He listens to the low hum of the engine and the quiet whispers of Scott and his girlfriend’s hushed murmurs, slowly pulling him to sweet oblivion.

 

Blurry images of his car crash flash like a speeding cassette until he was shaken awake by a violent jolt. He looks around, and he sees how everyone is looking at themselves. His friend is lifting his head off the window and checking on him.

“I’m fine,” he tells him. He eyes the other passengers and switches back to Scott, worry latent in his voice. “What happened?”

“Freaking Erica is what happened!” Isaac bellows behind the wheel, and it’s only then it registers that some of the sunlight has caught up to them. “She’s been giving me the wrong directions, and I’ve been driving in damn circles for the past two hours!”

“Oh, now it’s my fault!” Erica counters, her nose flaring with rage. “You ugly Meerkat!”

“Who you calling Meerkat, you–” He glances over at her and then back at the road, still grappling for the word. When that proves futile because he’s seeing too much red to think straight, he pokes where it hurts. “You can’t even read a freaking road map!”

Boyd drawls, still slightly shaky from the bump. “Lay off her, Isaac.”

“And who are you,”–Isaac glares into the rearview mirror–“her spokesman?”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna punch the light outta ya if you glare at me like that again.” Boyd swings a forewarning index at the other, whose brows twitch at the sinister words that for sure will work to convey the hint in the dread of the night. He’d probably mope on what-ifs. Boyd is quite proud of his achievement.

“Back off, Boyd.” Isaac punches the steering wheel when he finds nothing else to vent his frustration on.

Stiles ignores their squabble and quickly looks out the window. He sees nothing but woods. Unending rows of thick pine trees lined like a chess board. Scott asks his friend to stop the car so they can brainstorm their next move. Isaac immediately complies, pulling over to a little space beside the dirt road with a sudden halt that has the van’s structure rattling in protest. Everyone gets out, breathing in the morning breeze before the sun makes an appearance. Jackson and Boyd take a spot beside the frontal tree lines to finish their joints. The former tries to light another cigarette, hoping the nicotine would ease off some of his irritation. Erica and Isaac call on a war to glare at each other. If looks could kill, they would have glared each other to their graves by now. Scott and Allison stands on the opposite roadside to look at the daisy flowers trying to grow radiant despite the insufferable heat.

Stiles takes it all in with blank eyes. He checks the van to make sure everything is intact.

That jostle was quite rough, and it might mean that they may have gotten a flat tire. He checks all four tires and finds a punctured cut on the one at the driver’s side. He squats down for better examination; the findings awe him.

“Guys!” he calls out with a skeptical tone. “You gotta see this.”

Those who paid attention and weren’t too doped came, asking about the reason behind his stunt.

“You see this hole here,” he said while pointing at the hole with his index. When he got their ‘yeah, what about it’, he said, “It’s caused by a sharp object.” When only quizzical brows get cocked at him in a ‘newsflash, captain obvious’ gesture, he adds, “We’re in the middle of nowhere, and the tire got a puncture the size of my fist?”

“Lots of tires get deflated on dirt roads, Stiles,” Allison reasons with him while scraping a stray pebble with her cuffed boots. “It’s probably just the heat. We’ll get it switched.”

“I don’t think it’s that cut and dry.” Stiles lifts off to his feet, moving his head in an almost imperceptible shake with his eyes fixated on the tire. “I’ll tell you this much, there’s no way the heat did that.”

“What’ ya saying then, Inspector Gadget?” Jackson prompts, “This isn’t the ‘Hills Have Eyes’ stupid little show to flaunt your nerdy knowledge.” He approaches Stiles with a little tottery in his walk. “Or you must be slacking off on your daily shot.”

Scott puffs out his chest. He already hates him from school. Why did Boyd have to invite him too? “Talk to my friend like that again, and you can bet your filthy ass I’m ‘a cut your filthy balls, dumb-shit.”

The defiant look in his eyes makes Jackson tremble. “We were just having a decent conversation before you interrupted and made a mountain outta a freaking molehill,” he scoffs.

Scott wraps his arms around his chest and tilts his head, goading the other for one more word… one more word and so God help him.

Jackson reads the vibe. But still hating the loss and wanting a little revenge, he turns around and mutters over his shoulder, “Handicaps.”

Boyd has long since stopped burning his joint so he can watch what’s going on just like everyone else. Some of them gasp because of what Jackson said. Scott darts forward after him like a bullet to latch at him, but Stiles catches him by the arm. He squares his shoulders when Scott tries to pull from his grip. “Drop it.”

Scott does, but only after Stiles refuses to ease the pressure on his arm.

Now it’s certainly on the table that they’re in the middle of nowhere with a busted van. The map that Erica has been reading turned out to be upside down all this time. It’s time to push their arguments behind them so they can try to come out of this before the concert even begins.

 

********

 

“Ah”–Lydia heaves a sigh, plunging her phone back into her pocket–“the signal is still not coming back.”

Some of them have tried to use the games on their phones to keep from the stifling boredom, but they soon realize that they can’t even receive a decent signal. Not to mention they don’t even know where they are exactly, which kind of irritates them, besides the heat.

“Alright.” Allison claps once. “Let’s switch the tire and find our way outta this hellhole.”

Isaac agrees. He forgets about Erica for now because the rental needs his attention more. He’s going to make sure every one of them pays their share for the busted tire. Erica then approaches Scott to complain that she fell asleep at some point; it’s not her fault they’re here. It’s not something Stiles has the heart to stomach right now. He knows that she was the one reading directions off the map, and you don’t handle that kind of responsibility unless you were apt to. He retreats from there and slides his arm inside the van from the window to grab a bottle of water since his case is a little bit different. Not special mind you, but he knows he needs to keep hydrated.

“You didn’t bring a spare? What are you?” Jackson suddenly rebukes angrily. “A freaking moron?”

“I just,” Isaac mumbles, guilty and all. “I didn’t think we’d be needing an extra.”

Stiles approaches them after discarding the bottle inside over his seat.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Jackson shouts, throwing his hands in the air like a madman. “This is just great!” While huffing, he kicks a stray cluster of pebbles and storms away from them to try to calm down. Lydia is quickly on his trail because seeing him upset makes her upset.

Stiles watches all this with attentive eyes now. He then looks around him. He scrutinizes the sedimentary rocks and the banded ground flooring the earth. He takes in the sky growing whiter with the rising sun, and the trees surrounding them from every corner. He rules out their dire need of directions. He asks Erica to hand him the map, and when she does, Stiles takes it with such determination that it sparks hope in their eyes.

“You know where we are?” she asks with her adenoidal voice, urgency evident in her way of asking.

“I think so, yea.” Stiles tells her the good news, and then he spreads the map on the van’s hood. “We filled up gas in this little town here, right?” He motions at some very faint writing on the map which Erica keeps on staring at. Stiles then realizes that she has no idea what he’s talking about and he can’t believe she’s the one who has been reading off directions till now. “Look, we must have wandered off to this side of the road when Isaac thought he’d been going in circles, it only means he was driving on this dirt road for a few hours thinking it was the same path.” He taps on a greenish area on the map with his slender index. “Place here looks all the same anyway, so it only means we’ve been going in here further. If we turn back, we might catch sight of the main road.”

“But without the van that’d be hours,” Allison notes. Stiles gives her credit for being able to read the distance. “There’s no signal, and there are no other cars have driven past on this road yet,” –Alright, that’s more than Stiles bargained. He hopes Allison doesn’t voice out any other misfortunes. These guys can only handle so much– “And our van is a goner.”

Stiles doesn’t order her to keep her mouth shut because hiding these things only serves to run from the truth. He knows that if they want to solve this dilemma, they must speak about the problems they have at hand. Stiles thanks her for the effort, folding the map in the meanwhile.

“So...” Lydia wraps her arms around her chest. “Are we just going to wait or what?”

“I’m afraid it’s more than that.” Stiles sighs bitterly, “Listen, guys.” He wets his lips. “I’ll head to the main road and try to get to the town we were at last night,” he says, now looking into the eyes of each one of them as they look worriedly back at him. “I’ll try to get help.”

“But Stiles”–Erica tilts her head–“you’re…”

When Stiles deciphers the meaning, he only smiles. “I know.”

Yes, he is epileptic. This little trip might cost him his life, but it’s not like he’s ready to camp out here and wait for death to creep in slowly. The van is out of order, and it could be days before another car comes on this road. He might as well do something about this since he can read that map. He opens the door to the van and gets inside. He grabs a couple of water bottles and some snacks before putting everything in his red backpack. When he comes out, he finds Scott standing next to the van with everyone else.

“What’ you think you’re doing?” he urges, one brow cocked in a very patronizing manner.

Stiles chews on his bottom lip before sighing, “Scott, I’m not going to keep repeating myself to each one of you.” He says forcefully, “I found the way that will take me back to the main road and I’m taking it.”

“Yeah,” Scott scoffs. “Keep on dreaming.”

“Scotty, I love you, but I’m not going to wait for your permission like little goody-two-shoes.” He takes out his phone to check if it’s charged. Sixty-five percent is not a bad number.

“You’re not going anywhere, alright?” The shorter male deadpans, “The last thing we need over this pile of shit is you having a seizure in the middle of nowhere. What help could that be? Tell me.”

Everyone watches as the two childhood friends keep on ripping into each other. They know better than to heckle them, especially with Scott turning on his protective detectors. They wait in hopes he simmers down to the humble and caring anchor that he is to his friends.

Scott doesn’t plan on making this easy for anyone as he snatches the bag from Stiles’ back and flings it away. “You’re not dying on my watch, you get that?” He wiggles an admonishing index at his friend. “You can try to play hero all you want, but I’m the one who’s gonna make sure it doesn’t go at your expense.” The look in his eyes suddenly tenderizes with worry. “You’re in no condition to go by yourself, and you’re not exactly hedging your debts by trying to play it safe. Stress equals seizures. Isn’t that enough proof to you or what?”

“So what are you suggesting then?” Stiles suddenly bellows, causing them all to flinch. “That I take the safe seat in this like some freaking handicap and let everyone take the hit for me?”

“You know the way out, right?” Scott asks out of the blue. “ _Right_?” he prompts when Stiles only stares blankly at him. When he finally nods tentatively, Scott smiled to him and said, “You hand over that map. You give me the right coordinates, and I’ll go instead.”

That is out of the question Scott.

“No.” Stiles said briskly. He walks away from his friend in a way that denotes this conversation is over and that he wins.

Scott is not going to have it. He latches onto Stiles again and spins him around to face him. “I’m not going to lose you again.”

Boyd finally decides to take part in this. He wants to stop the argument before it escalates to something troublesome like a fist fight. “Alright,” he sighs. “Isaac and I will go.”

The childhood friends swivel their heads so fast. “What?” They ask in unison.

Isaac asks in bewilderment, “Yea, what?”

Boyd looks at them blankly inscrutable before flippantly scratching his nape. “You two are too overprotective of each other. I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with you being at each other's throats like that,” he said. “Isaac kinda fucked up too, so he’s coming with.”

“No, Boyd.” Stiles disagrees. Boyd feels like he must rein in his anger to try to keep from punching some sense into the brunet. “I’m not an invalid. I can do this. I’m coming with too.”

Boyd looks at him amused. “And you honestly think Scott here is gonna let you have it your way?”

Stiles’ brows twitch at that.

“Don’t sweat it,” He chuckles. “Just hand over everything here. We can also do the job.”

 

Stiles sits very far from his childhood friend. He hates the blows of bad luck that keep on coming his way. He honestly thought he could pull this off so long as he took care of every little thing since his case is, again, different. He hates to be an extra weight, and he hates it most when his friend makes it look like he is.

A couple of hours go by in a flash, and no cars had made an appearance. They left their hopes on Boyd and Isaac to find their way out.

 

For lunch, they eat some of the snacks they brought with them. Jackson, Lydia, and Erica complain about the food, the heat, and their luck.

“This was supposed to be a fun trip; now, we’re delayed in fucking nowhere for a whole day,” Jackson huffs out frustratingly. He shuffles a few times on one of the front seats inside the van, obviously looking uncomfortable.

The rest, except Scott, agrees with him.

Stiles is sitting on the seat he called first dibs on, and he looks out of the window with a lost look.

“You’re still mad at me?”

Without looking around, Stiles knows that it’s his friend. He doesn’t answer him just to show how angry he is with him right now.

“Go ahead; I won’t stop you,” Scott offers. “I don’t feel guilty though. It’s my job to look after you. That ain’t gonna change, ever.”

How is that supposed to soothe his anger?

“You can sulk all you want, but when it’s all said and done you’re gonna realize I’m doing this for you.” He lifts off the seat. “Rest your eyes for now.”

Before he realizes it, his eyes slide closed on their own.

 

When he wakes up, he looks around and sees he’s the only one in the van. He quickly looks out of the window. He finds everyone outside lying on the ground under the shadow of a big tree. The scene warms him. He notices that Isaac and Boyd aren’t there. That must mean they are either making their way to the town or they lost their way. Honestly, Stiles hates the latter and just hangs his hopes on the long roads.

They usher him to the food on the ground after he gets out. These idiots, if they keep eating like that, they won’t have any food left for dinner.

He asks once he reaches their nest, “Any word from Isaac and Boyd?”

“We’re still waiting,” Lydia informs, now choking on that trashy pot they’re smoking.

Serves her right.

Stiles checks his hand watch. It shows that it is five in the evening. “Letting you know that I’m going to look around for a bit,” he said. “If you need me just holler.”

That goes for his best friend Scott as well.

He takes a half-empty bottle and makes for the off-road. He skids through the tree lines and enjoys the shadow of the deciduous leaves keeping the sun’s heat away. The silence slowly creeps in, and he finds himself loving the sensation. The crickets are buzzing like the phone poles. Far off birds can be heard tweeting on the branches. This is nature, in fact –and this is just Stiles feeling suddenly nostalgic. This is what a nature maniac would choose over the temptations of life.

It urges him to explore more.

Very soon, he hears the faint burbling of water. He makes to its source only to find himself inching toward a flowing river. He is delighted because they can fill up water from here. He walks across the river bank with glowing eyes taking in the scenery in front of him. Before he knew it, he finds himself stripping off his clothes to walk into the water. He goes straight into a small pond that the faint cascades must have created through the years. It’s not deep. It reaches his waist when he bends his knees a little.

Perfect.

He can cool off from the radiant sun. He can listen to the ripple of the cascades and just enjoy his quality time with feather-like touches of water kneading his fair skin. He lifts handfuls of water to spill them on his chest.

When he finally comes out of the water, naked as the day he was born, he hears the dead twigs cracking. It immediately alerts him. He discards that piece of clothing in his hand and keeps a pair of careful eyes on the place. It might be some animal. If he stays still, it will go away. But the sounds come back again, more spoken now. Stiles’ heart starts picking up the pace. “Who’s there?”

Suddenly, someone tall marches out of the trees and into view.

It is a hiker. Stiles can tell by the baseball hat, the hiking backpack, the timberland boots, the khaki shorts, and the grey T.

The strange man doesn’t say anything. He only eyes Stiles’ naked body for a while. It doesn’t deter Stiles as he looks back. He stares more as those sharp, slightly wide, green eyes of the man switch from Stiles’ face to his torso, and his legs. Soon a smirk twitches at the corner of his thin lips. Stiles takes this with little bewilderment; this man isn’t doing anything to hide that… Stiles isn’t quite sure how to call that expression, but he doesn’t like it.

A man he doesn’t know is looking at him like how a man looks at a woman.

Stiles is standing stark naked, dripping wet. He can almost feel shameless droplets slowly sliding down his waist and between his thighs. That isn’t a turn-on unless this man is playing for a different team. He finally realizes that they’ve been staring back at each other for a few good minutes now. He starts to squirm and feel a blush eventually invading his cheeks. He hates being in the spotlight, especially being stared at by a stranger so he looks away.

The other man finally makes a move, and Stiles is on guard again. The man removes the straps of his travel pack and flings it to the side as he approaches Stiles. The latter’s eyes tremble. He is not only naked but defenseless as well. If this stranger decided to hurt him in any way, there’d be no one to take him out of it by himself. He braces for it. If it comes down to that, he’ll go down fighting.

The man finally stops when he is standing only a feather-width away from Stiles. An arrogant smirk is speaking volumes of his smug expression. It gives an impression that he won something that wasn’t necessarily materialistic.

It still doesn’t deter Stiles as he hardens his glare.

The man scoffs. He averts his eyes and walks past him altogether. Stiles’ gaze follows the man. It’s unintentional, but it’s instinctual. He takes notice of the maroon and black sipper bottle that he’s trying to fill with water from the flowing cascades. Stiles uses the distraction to wear his jeans and the white T-shirt.

The T gets past his face when the other man finishes his task and lifts himself up. He meets Stiles again. The latter adjusts the shirt and ruffles his hair; his eyes on the other’s the entire time.

“Hiking?” Stiles asks. It doesn’t escape him how the other man’s brows almost arch up at the sudden question.

“Trekking.” The man corrects. Just as Stiles guessed, his voice is deep and velvet around the edge.

“Solo?” That’s a rhetorical question, and apparently, the man gets it as he doesn’t say anything about it. “Pretty impressive.” Stiles nods his understanding, now slipping his vans on. “Could be dangerous though.”

“Derek,” the other said while extending his hand for a handshake. “Name’s Derek Hale.”

Stiles takes his hand, “Stiles.” He said, “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Derek smiles a little. The smile has a hint of embarrassment into it, but Stiles assumes the man is coy now they’re bare of their names. “So, Stiles.” The enunciated words are droned. “Any reason why you’re venturing out naked by yourself, or are you going to tell me you’re the son of nature?”

Stiles chuckles at the joke, but that doesn’t mean he wants this stranger knowing details of their circumstances. “No,” he starts carefully. “I’m here with friends. We had a bit of a situation, but we’re trying to get into the swing of things.”

“Oh,” Derek hums a little absentmindedly which Stiles thinks is insulting. “But you guys are OK, right?” he asks out of the blue, and it touches Stiles that he is at least pretending he cares. “I mean physically hurt, because I came across a couple yesterday. One of them was severely injured.”

“No, no we’re okay,” Stiles assures. “Nobody’s hurt.”

“That’s a relief then.” He sighs a little. “Well, I better take my leave now if I want to set up camp before nightfall.”

As Stiles watches the man tuck the bottle into the backpack, he contemplates whether he should invite him to stay with them since they’re spending the night in the open. But he decides against it because they already have enough on their plate. Scott’s friends couldn’t take anymore.

The man slips into the straps of the pack and fixes the angle of his cap. He looks back at Stiles. “The nights are usually cold up here, so make sure you keep warm,” he said. “And try not to loiter around naked. You could get jumped outta nowhere.” He turns around to leave.

Stiles bites back his retort and only half smiles at the innuendo; suddenly, a scream tears between the tree lines and echoes like a dreary, horrifying cry. Stiles looks up and sees that Derek is also looking back at him with curious apprehension. It dawns on him that he recognizes the voice as Jackson’s. He instantly shoots towards it, knowing the stranger is soon to be at his heel.

Stiles shoots through the tree lines, ignoring how the twigs and branches scrape his skin on his way. When he finally reaches the clearing where his pals are located, the scene immobilizes him to the spot.

 

Jackson is on the ground beside one of the van’s wheels, wheezing in pain. The rest are scattering around him. They are undecided on what to do because, horror of horrors, Jackson was shot in his chest with a freaking arrow. Stiles moves a little and he barely manages a full stride when Derek scurries past him, taking off his bag, and dashing to Jackson side. Stiles finally gets his feet under his control again, so he follows Derek.

“I need some space here!” Derek shouts at them. “Stiles, can you hand me the first aid kit inside my bag?”

Stiles obeys the order and darts to the bag. He opens it haphazardly, rummaging inside of it with two shaky hands. Scott comes up to him, face smeared with tears and dirt. “It came outta nowhere, Stiles. Where were you? You’d have been hurt!”

Stiles gets to his feet once he finds the box. “Not now,” he said as he hurries back to Derek’s side with the emergency kit. “We need to get that arrow out of his chest.”

“I don’t need you to tell me my job.” Derek bites out. One hand is pressing around the arrow while the other is trying to open the box.

Stiles eyes this very attentively. He looks at Scott, Allison hugging Lydia, and Erica whom are all staring down at them with eyes expectant and fearful. He looks back at Derek, and ignores how funny he sounds when he orders Jackson, who is in so much pain, to shut the hell up. He sets his mind. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Help me get him inside the van,” Derek said hurriedly. “Whoever shot him could still be out there.” He adds, “Better safe than sorry, right?”

Stiles nods and gets up to help ship Jackson into the van. They ignore when he cries out in pain as they place him in the backseat of the van. The rest get in too. Stiles immediately looks around for water bottles and something to use as a pillow. He balls their scattered clothes and puts them underneath Jackson’s head.

“Alright,” Derek sighs, looking up from his crouch to Stiles. “I need you to hold him down for me. I’m about to remove the arrow. This wound needs stitches, or else it’s gonna continue to bleed out.”

Stiles shares a vehement nod with him, and he places his two hands on Jackson’s shoulders. “Go.”

Without wasting a second, Derek immobilizes the injured by a hand. With the other hand, he uses it to pull out the arrow. Jackson continues to cry out and squirm, causing Lydia to cry as well. “Are you holding him tight?” He shouts at Stiles, “I can see him still moving you know!”

Stiles places all his strength in pushing the injured down, stopping him from moving. He wishes Jackson’s pain could end already. Derek finally pulls out the arrow. Jackson hollers with a pained cry and collapses soon after. It’s still too early to celebrate. The wound on his chest is bleeding faster. Now with dim lights, Derek can barely do anything to stop the bleeding.

“Does anyone have a lighter?” He asks. His hands are busy pulling out a syringe and a small liquid bottle of anesthetic Stiles guesses. “I need a lighter.”

Stiles fumbles with the items around him. “Some of you guys smoke, right?”

Aside from Scott and Stiles, the entire crew smokes (Scott only occasionally). But only when it’s needed, they can’t find their lighters?

Scott gets his meaning as he starts looking frantically around. He squeaks when he finds one in the glove compartment. He tosses it to Stiles who catches it with remarkable accuracy. Derek tells him to open the needle box and sterilize one with the fire. Stiles does as ordered. Derek pierces Jackson’s chest with the medical needle to pump him full of the good stuff. Hopefully, he won’t feel anything during this excruciating process.

“His internal organs don’t seem wounded. Good…good.” Derek almost collapses with relief. “He has a couple of cracked ribs though, but nothing life-threatening. Don’t worry.” He said. Now taking the needle and the threading roller from Stiles, he pushes the thread into the eye of the needle and starts stitching up the wound.

 

All the commotion dies just like the faintest rays of the sun sinking beyond the horizon. Stiles feels punched with a sudden lack of adrenaline drive. He grabs a bottle of water and goes back to his seat to relax. From his place, he can see Derek take out a cardigan from his bag, and spread it over Jackson. He watches as he gives orders to Erica and Lydia to keep cooling his forehead and his feet to keep his fever down. He stands up, and his eyes meet with Stiles’.

He smiles triumphantly.

Why wouldn’t he? He’s just saved a life.

Derek picks up his supplies and hides them back in his bag. He puts the bag aside and walks to where Stiles is sitting. He flops on the seat next to him with a loud sigh.

He groans, “What a day, huh!”

“You saved a life, don’t whine now,” Stiles chuckles, but it’s all playful.

Derek gets it, and he chuckles back. “It’s always a good feeling when they live,” he said “But you helped out too, so thank you. I’m sorry I had to yell at you.”

“Just did what I was told to do,” Stiles admits humbly. “But if you don’t mind my asking, are you perhaps a doctor, because if you are, I really feel sorry for your underlings.”

“Med student,” Derek corrects with a smile. “One more year to graduate.”

Stiles nods. “I’m sure you’re gonna ace it.”

Derek tries to engage in more conversation with him but Lydia speaks from where she’s seated, “Who do you think shot that arrow?”

“I couldn’t see,” Scott replies, and Allison finished for him. “It’s good we took cover behind the van though. He could have shot us too.”

“You guys didn’t see their faces?” Derek asks as his voice grows deeper.

Lydia seizes the chance to be in their center of attention as she scurries to the seat next to those two. “It was really fast. We were all talking, you know, hanging out. Jackson told us he wanted to take a piss. Then we heard his body slam to the ground, and that’s when we saw the arrow sticking out of his chest.”

“But whoever shot him, he was wearing beige and light brown garments,” Erica prompts. “He quickly ducked after shooting the first arrow.”

Stiles quickly looks through the rear windshield window and sees the outline of the massive sedimentary rocks. If he still remembers correctly, it’s the same color, beige and light brown.

So that means…

“Camouflage,” he mumbles.

Because it was silent while he was thinking, he didn’t even notice that they all hear it.

“What? What did you say?” Lydia demands.

“What was that?” Erica curiously asks.

Stiles looks up abruptly. He doesn’t mind sharing his conclusions with them since they look interested enough to listen to him. “The sedimentary rocks have a very distinct trait. Their color is more like sandstone.” When they all just stare uncomprehendingly at him, he adds, “If what you’re saying is true and if my conclusion is right, it must mean they’ve been tracking us down this whole time.”

“Come again?” Scott scoffs.

“Think about it,” Stiles gushes on. “The freaking heat didn't cause the punctured tire. Let’s suppose it did, how do you explain that hole in the side of the tire? It’s supposed to deflate not puncture.” He takes a deep breath, and adds, “The sandstone color is the same color that culprit was wearing; beige and light brown. It’s called camouflage. Maybe he was the one who shot the tire to render the van useless, and now he’s decided to hurt us?”

Lydia snorts, and bursts out laughing. Erica soon follows suit.

“That happens in movies only Stiles!” Lydia said. “There’s no killer whatsoever.”

Scott is too offended by their reaction to have a comeback to that. Stiles only shakes his head dejected.

“Then,” Derek starts, looking up at them with emerald-green pupils darker than the night sky. “How would you explain that?” He gestures towards Jackson lying pale on the ground. The snickering becomes fainter until they all stop. Their eyes examine the barely alive body. “The fact that somebody shot him still poses questions.” He continues, “Maybe, Stiles’ explanation sounds a little off, but it should not be taken lightly. You guys might have been followed and ambushed.” He turns to face Stiles. “Remember about the couple I told you earlier?”

Stiles nods fervently.

“The husband was severely injured. The wife kept telling him that she saw someone that caused their car to crash. She said they were lucky I was passing by because I helped them out with the injuries her husband sustained,” he sighs. “Maybe this could be related.”

“Did you report this to the rangers?” Stiles asks. His brows twitch when his eyes fall directly on Derek’s. He’s not used to sitting so close to someone, let alone staring right into their eyes.

“I tried.” Derek shakes his head in a sorry manner. “But the signal is too weak up here, and I didn’t bring my walkie-talkie with me.”

“But you didn’t get in any sort of problem, right? Like anything similar to this at all?” Stiles asks, bewildered.

Derek shakes his head again. They resign with slumped shoulders. Then he said, “But”–they look up at him again–“I do remember coming across something strange.”

“Strange?” Stiles repeats. “How strange?”

“Random hunting.” he said. He makes sure he has their attention before he said, “I came across a few carcasses of dead animals. It wasn’t one or two. I mean, the woods were filled with them. This area is pretty famous for hosting the largest number of foxes, but that doesn’t mean they go on random hunts. It made me quite suspicious.”

“It’d be wild boars,” Allison comments. “They’re known to grow into the size of a tree.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, this was more”–his brows furrow–“this was more brutal.”

  
They all fall into a gloomy silence. They try to come up with scenarios and fabricate their reality in their heads. Before they even know it, an entire hour goes by in a flash. Derek has already introduced himself and got their names. He excuses himself to check on his patient. Erica sticks to his side to help. Stiles looks away from them to look out the window.

When is Boyd going to get them out of this?

  
“Stiles?”

He turns to face his friend Scott, who is sitting next to him. Scott doesn’t smile like he usually does when he tries to buy his way to Stiles’ good graces.

“It must have been hard on you,” he sighs.

“It was hard on all of us,” Stiles tells him.

“Right.” He nods. “I know, but, well, you know…”

See? This is exactly why he can’t stand him anymore.

“Because I’m sick?” he urges. “Because I break easily?”

Their commotion garners unwanted attention as everyone listens to what they’re saying.

“That’s not what I meant. You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Scott tilts his head in an attempt to mollify his friend’s anger.

“Just…” He lifts his hand. “Just stop, okay? I don’t think I have the heart to hear it, whatever it is you want to say. I’m tired. I want to lie down, so if you don’t mind–” He ushers his friend to the seat away from him.

The other sighs. “What about your shot?”

“I’m not disabled. I can do it myself, thank you very much.”

Scott looks hurt. He lingers long enough for Stiles to take his words back, but he doesn’t. Scott leaves him alone.

Derek watches as Stiles rummages inside some bag. He watches as he takes a syringe and a little bottle, and hides them in his pocket. He gets up to his feet to tell them that nature is calling. They insist that he stays inside and holds it in.

Lydia stands by the door to stop him. “If we open this door, the killer could get inside. He could still be out there.”

Stiles gives her a proud smirk. “I thought there’s no killer whatsoever.”

“Don’t be a wise ass now Stiles.” Erica approaches him from behind. “Just hold it in until we get out of here.”

Stiles presses his lips momentarily in exasperation. “Out of my way,” he orders Erica as he pushes her gently to the side when she refuses to budge. Erica grabs Stiles by the shoulders and turns him around only to slam him against the door. “I don’t care if your bladder bursts, you’re not opening this door. You get that?”

The reason why Stiles wants to get out is not to pee by the back tire or get some fresh air; he needs to get out because he’s feeling nauseated and dizzy. He must get it out of his stomach if he wants to feel relief again. “Move.”

Erica watches as Stiles’ face pales, but that doesn’t stop her from immobilizing him as he fights and struggles in her hold. Erica finds no other option but to slap him so he can calm down. The rest are making a total commotion. When she lifts her palmed-out hand, Derek grabs it.

“What’re you doing?” Erica said in reproach.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Derek tightens his grip and ushers to Stiles with his head. “Seriously, you really want to have a go at him? Can’t you see he’s feeling sick?”

Stiles pulls away from them and staggers to the driver’s seat, leaning on the steering wheel heavily. When Derek tries to come closer, Stiles amazes himself when he shouts at him. “Just, stay away from me for now, please.”

They all watch as he takes out the syringe, and fills it with whatever substance is inside the bottle. He gives himself a shot through the side of his upper arm. He leans back on the headrest, sighing very tiredly.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**AN: Graphic depiction of a seizure.**

It’s been a few hours since the chaos subsided, and everyone slid into their own thoughts. The sky has gotten quite dark, and Jackson is still sleeping the pain off.

Derek is currently supervising his patient’s condition, Lydia is hovering by his side, Allison and Scott are snuggling in her seat, and Erica is on the floor sky gazing through the window on the side. Stiles, though, he’s still sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to figure out how to get them out of this mess. He’s hoping that whoever shot Jackson has at least a little consideration, and that’s a stupid thing to hope for since the perpetrator shot a young man in cold blood. But he will keep the hope because getting attacked in the middle of the night when they’re fresh out of ideas would be a cruel fate. He glances over his shoulders and takes in the scene of everyone praying that the night would end quickly so they don’t end up like Jackson, who is miserable and in pain. There was one time when Derek said that his patient was not in pain, that it was just the fever and it might be a sign of an infection starting to spread out, so they needed to be careful. If Boyd and Isaac don’t get into town by today, they’re all ruined. There won’t be anyone to get them out of this, and that’s a thought Stiles doesn’t want to consider yet. Judging by their reaction to Jackson getting shot by an arrow, he knows they wouldn’t stand a chance out in the open for more than a couple of days. He only gives it two days because Jackson has already proved to be a liability.

Christ, what was he thinking? Jackson isn’t a liability, he’s a person.

He is a person who proved to be quite the dick-bag in more than an occasion, but he’s still a person. Now he’s shot and is obviously in a lot of pain, and it’s natural to feel for him.

 

Stiles’ hungry.

He’s starting to feel the grumbling of his stomach growing louder. There’s very little food left, and he isn’t about to bum a slime-bag attitude off them by bringing up his medical condition. He’s already taken his shot and sleeping without food for one night isn’t going to kill anyone.

And just like that, the night morphs into the morning.

They wake up at the sound of Jackson coughing. Stiles peeks from his place to see Derek lifting up from his seat and is soon at Jackson’s side. He is bombarding him with questions and ghosting his hands over his chest to look for any other injuries. They all watch as their wounded friend looks at them through slanted eyes, looking grateful to be alive.

“Get me some water,” Derek orders fervently. “I have to wash around the wound and change his dressing, anyone?”

There are only a couple of bottles that contain water, and they are half empty too. It’s only a matter of time now until they all start feeling the lack of liquids and food taking its toll on them.

Derek takes the bottles from them and makes do with what they have. “I’m gonna have to clean around the wound at least twice a day. Do you honestly expect me to make do every single time?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Erica reminds. “Anyone of us could get shot the moment they walk outta that door.”

Derek’s eyes look up, evidently furious. “He’s feverish and he’s in pain. He has to keep hydrated, and the painkiller doses aren’t really helping,” he bites out, spitefully. “I need to keep this wound clean, or it might get infected. Unless you want your friend here to die because you’re scared of your own shadow, I suggest you let us out so we can at least get the job done.”

“Once you get out you’ve sentenced yourself to death,” Allison said. “Now, I’m sorry about Jackson, but let’s wait a little longer. Isaac and Boyd must have reached the town by now.”

At this, Derek lets out a weary sigh and looks away from them, and his eyes fall on Stiles’. The two of them share a thoughtful glance before Stiles lifts to his feet. “Alright, give me the empty bottles.”

Erica curses under her breath before standing up. “Hey, Stiles.” she starts, and there’s clear exasperation in her voice. “Don’t think you can go about just because you have epilepsy." At this, Lydia starts pulling her from the elbow so she’d drop it. Apparently, it only fuels her anger as she wrenches her arm from the other’s hand. “I call the shots here. When I say no one gets out of the van, I mean no one, not even you.”

Stiles looks cynical; he feels cynical. He wants to laugh at the other’s face, ask her what’s so scary about death that has her biting her nails. It’s annoying, but he refrains and makes to fetch the bottles by himself instead.

When it dawns on Erica that she’s just been ignored, a feeling of intense wrath vibrates through her, and she goes after him, intent on settling things with her own hands again. The rest is prompted, and they immediately lift up, waiting, but inwardly anticipating the outcome of Erica’s sudden outburst. Only Scott and Derek leapt up alarmed, keeping their guards up so that even if Erica decides to do something, they’d stop her.

“You think you’re better than us, is that it?” she taunts as Stiles collects the scattered empty bottles. “Well, you’re not getting any different treatment even if you’re handicapped, you hear me? If you open that door, I’m not letting you in again.”

Stiles huffs and wets his lips before turning around to face her. “Are you done?”

Erica gets provoked, and Stiles is glaring head-on back at her. Allison then pops up, trying to smooth things out between them before their conflict escalates, but Erica is not taking her eyes off Stiles’. Without any warnings, she throws a punch but Stiles throws the bottles at her, seizes the chance when Erica dodges to give her a vigorous shove. However, it’s not strong enough to make the other tip over. When she recovers from the tumble that nearly had her taking a back dive on the seats, Erica looks up looking like all hell broke loose, which, with all things considered, it really might have.

Top notch ‘oops’ right there, Stiles thinks bemused.

“You retarded asshole!” Erica fumes, glancing over at the melee of her friends in the cramped van. “You think this is funny?”

“I don’t.” Stiles simply shrugs. “But I think you do.”

Erica’s tendons jut out, and she bugs out her eyes at the other. “You want to die?” she dares. “Alright,” she says, now grabbing Stiles by the arm and ignoring how everyone is trying to talk her out of it because, basically, violence doesn't solve violence. But Erica is adamant on settling the score with her hands, and she keeps on pulling the other like a sack of potatoes.

Finally, Stiles’ patience snaps. He grabs that hand on his forearm, turns it to spin Erica around and then he pushes her down on the seats next to them. He straddles her back, “I think I’ve had it up to here with your scaredy cat attitude,” he says atop her. “You’re starting to be annoying.”

“Lay off me, you retard!” Erica twists and wriggles beneath him. “Okay, fine!” she hisses. “Get out, but don’t expect to come back in once you leave.”

Stiles shoves her a little just to make a point, and he finally lifts off to start collecting the scattered bottles. Erica straightens up, now looking away from everyone’s appraising looks. Stiles opens the door and walks out after inspecting his surroundings. Then he makes his way back to the river he was at the day before. It’s quite bothersome how he had to choose between two difficult things. Holing up inside the van or going out to fetch water was like choosing between AIDS and Cancer. They both might end up with him dead. And the way Erica is dealing would have been catastrophic if it wasn’t for some of them who are still able to see the bigger picture. Yes, their life could be in danger, but how are they supposed to survive if they never get out of the van? It’s not Erica’s fault that she’s scared. It’s only natural not to want to die, especially not in the middle of nowhere in the outskirts of no-name town. Stiles hogs the blame. Even if something were to happen to him while he fills up the bottles for everyone else, it would still be on him. However, when he comes back, he finds his friend Scott and Derek standing outside the van, their eyes on the mountains surrounding them. They straighten up when he clears his throat.

“What’ you guys doing outside?” he asks, now knocking on the door of the van.

Derek was crouched beside a tire and has now leveled up to his feet. He hides his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I’m not their pal,” he says. “They can’t lock me up if I don’t want it.”

Stiles tries to read that scowl over the other’s face, but, well, whatever.

Scott then approaches them. “Actually,” he drones. “He threatened Erica that if she doesn’t allow you back in he wouldn’t supervise Jackson’s condition.” He glances over at Derek between the words. “And there’s no way I’m leaving you to stay out while I hole up back inside.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Stiles sighs. “It’s dangerous out here,” he hints this to Derek. “If you really care about your patient then you should stay inside the van. You won’t be any help if you’re shot too.”

“Stiles.” A look of concern furrows Scott’s brows. “He just wanted to help.”

Derek lifts conciliating hands. “It’s alright,” he tells him. “He is right.” He lets out a small sigh. “But Stiles,” –He looks back into the other’s eyes– “They were already preventing us from getting water, and that’s basically not letting me do my job, so Jackson’s case is a bummer either way.”

Stiles snakes his tongue out just a tiny bit, suppressing his anger towards everyone inside the van. Speaking of which, why aren’t they opening the door? He gives it a few more raps that rattle its structure. “Erica!” He pounds the door now. “Open up!”

Judging by the silence that follows, the trio outside guesses that Erica must have given her friends instructions not to open the door for the suicidal ones. Stiles concludes that if Erica is so adamant on leaving them outside, then damn straight she will. He just sighs with evident frustration and throws a few bottles through the window. He keeps a few for them since it’s scorching hot outside. They take seats between two large trunks of two large trees, and they watch the world as the crickets’ buzzing grows louder. The birds fly randomly above.

“So long as we keep cover,” Scott starts. “He won’t hurt us.”

Stiles looks up with little annoyance. It’s sweltering hot, he’s sweating, and he’s hungry. They all are. Excuse him if taking it out on Scott is terrible, but at least it seems to mollify some of the stress pressing on his chest. “Sure hope so, but Scott,” he starts. “If the asshole was able to shoot Jackson from a 500 meters’ distance with a freaking arrow, then he can shoot about anyone because he’s a pro.”

“But if we take cover,” Scott instigates but doesn’t add anything else because it’s already clear.

“He doesn’t look like he has problems with angles either.” He looks ahead now, narrowing his eyes because the sun’s harsh glare. “He’d have already killed us if he really wanted us dead.”

“Now, that’s a scary thing to say,” Derek scoffs. “And I’m still trying to tell myself that it was a reckless shooting. Someone was probably stalking deer or shooting birds. Jackson was just unlucky,” he says. “I did find animal carcasses scattered inside the woods, so maybe they were hunters?”

“It still doesn’t add up.” Scott shrugs. “But, whatever,” he groans. “I just hope Isaac and Boyd are fine and already in that town. I’m  _so_ at the end of my rope you don’t even know.”

“So you guys already sent for help.” Derek nods. “Then that’s a huge relief. I hope they're on their way now; I certainly don’t want this nomadic lifestyle for myself anymore.”

Stiles isn’t that optimistic though.

His friend and Derek chat more about the hiking and concert, which was the reason all this happened. Stiles leans back on the tree trunk, closing his eyes to nap. He hears Derek ask his friend about him, about his medical condition, and if there’s something they should worry about. Stiles, knowing that Scott tends to spill things once he feels comfortable with someone, cuts him off. "It's nothing you should worry about. And that's it."

The afternoon finds them hungry and sweating their balls of.

Stiles decides to go full-on caveman mode since Erica is keeping the van on lockdown. He breaks some branches and throws them to the ground. Before telling them what to do with them, he takes out his keychain that has a folding knife attached to it and asks “What do you guys think about spearfishing?” He smiles conceitedly at them as they gawk in return. “I’m hungry, and I bet everyone is.” He says, now taking one of the branches and using his folding knife to graze it at the head. “I’m not quite sure it’s going to come out good but DIY spears aren’t an everyday activity back at home, and the head of the arrow that bastard shot at Jackson could be a lot of help. I don’t suppose Erica is going to let us go in and get it, so let’s do our best.” With that, he focuses back on his piece of wood and tries to craft it in a way that can make the spear work.

Derek and Scott exchange an amused look before smiling at Stiles’ sudden ‘look at the bright side’ attitude. Scott fumbles with his clothes and comes out with a metal nail clipper. Derek does the same and comes out with his dog tag. They try to make do with those.

Then Stiles tears off the hem of his shirt, and uses it to wrap the blade on the head of the makeshift spear. He looks quite proud of his little achievement and quickly lifts off to his feet. “Alright,” he gushes. “But you guys know we’re fishing, so it’s best if you cut the head of the spear into three sharp parts.”

“And what about the one you made?” Derek asks, bemused.

“This.” He examines his handiwork. “This is a hunting spear.” He looks at them now. “Let’s hope there are rabbits out there,” he sighs. He adds on a mumble, “I wanna eat roasted rabbit for dinner.”

Despite their fears of getting attacked and shot at any second, they decide death is just a milestone in your road. Although it should be the last one after you’ve lived and had all the fun you could get, but that's a luxury they don’t currently have. They head to the river and try to catch fish because it turns out Derek is quite a humdinger comedian. Scott is having the fun of his life as Derek and Stiles get at each other’s throats. The latter doesn’t want to get soaked, so he stays by the bank, trying to catch sight of any rabbits though he knows they don’t get attracted to the ruckus, and nor does the fish.

“Guys,” he breathes out heavily. “If you keep playing around you’re not going to get anything done. Now quit splashing the water everywhere, you’re only disturbing the fish like that.”

Derek smiles thinly at Scott who shrugs in a gesture that suggests they heed his orders before he flips. Stiles tells them he must go in deeper into the woods. Even with the other two reprimanding and warning, he tells them he’ll be careful, and he will try not to stray further from them.

Scott’s come a long way in the past two nights alone, giving him a breather and letting him handle things on his own and not treating him with kid gloves anymore. Though his worried gaze keeps following Stiles in an almost nagging way, he at least admires his courage, so that’s something.

He’s trudging through the grove of trees, eyes full and cautious and his grip cramping on the handmade spear. He hears a few dry twigs get crunched here and there with some distant rustling. After inspecting around like a compass, he rules it’s some animal that is also fed up with summer heat. So instead of walking the opposite direction, he walks right to the source of the noises. His face lightens up when he sees a single wild rabbit hopping around astray. Stiles lifts his spear and gets ready to shoot it, but another twig breaks somewhere and the rabbit perks up and flees away altogether. Stiles races after it, not caring about stealth and smoothness anymore. The rabbit takes a turn into the bushes, and Stiles still follows it after jumping over the shrubs like a mountain goat and piercing the air with his spear, not caring where it landed.

When he recovers from the fall, he pauses, sitting completely still. Just beyond the bushes, there’s a small clearing. At the very far corner of the clearing, a man in beige and brown clothes is dragging a body. Stiles’ heart almost rises to his mouth because, after another searching glance, he can tell the body that’s covered in blood and leaves is Boyd, looking dead. He feels sudden anger almost blind him on the spot. His hands start ghosting over the ground, pEricag for his pocket knife. He will kill that son of a bitch. He will end their nightmare now and today. He will take Boyd back to his family, and pour his heart in a heartbreaking obituary. Another man comes out between the trees and helps drag the body, Stiles’ hopes shatter to pieces as he watches with awe.

There’s too much blood on Boyd’s face. Stiles is sure that even if he’s alive and if he gets him out of there, Boyd’s brain is going to sustain the most damage, and he might spend his life in a wheelchair. God damn, what is he thinking in a critical time like this! He must do something, he… And then Boyd groans. The sound is curdling with blood down his throat. Stiles laughs and cries in a whisper, because that groan is a new light of hope that flickers for another chance. Stiles feels happy. Boyd is alive, and that’s all that matters. But as Boyd wakes up more, he starts lashing and trying to wiggle away from the hands lifting him from the wrists and ankles. The man who’s just joined the other pauses in his tracks, and Stiles’ gut lurches in instant horror. The man takes a machete out of the scabbard that’s wrapped around his middle– which Stiles thought was a poleax at first, and he lifts it over his head to stab Boyd’s neck. Boyd lifts his hands to protect his neck but they get gored instead, again and again. When the nightmare seems to finally end, Boyd drops down, unmoving like a ragdoll.

“You didn’t have to chop his hands off, genius.” The man in the beige says, “Now we have to carry him, what a bummer.”

The other shrugs. “He was giving us trouble,” he says. “I hate trouble.”

When he got on the van a few days ago, he never even envisaged crouching with wobbly legs behind dust-smelling shrubs, and watching with trembling doe eyes as Boyd, one of the passengers and Scott’s friend, gets slashed to death.

The uneven pattern of his shallow breaths drowns out the eerily normal silence of the woods as he watches how those men, undeterred by the unmoving body, lift Boyd by the armpits and the knees, and skirt towards the trees, disappearing at last. Stiles looks around shaken and pale. The funny thing is he finds the wild rabbit poised next to his feet, dead.

When he walks back aimlessly, he starts thinking whether he should tell the others. Should he just come out and tell them how Boyd got brutally amputated and mutilated, or should he keep quiet until their turn comes? How’s he supposed to tell them that they might end up like one of the animal carcasses Derek talked about? No, his friends are already dealing with lack of water and food. Their neurons are almost shooting through the sky. They will go hysterical if they find out about this. But they have a right to know as well, whether it scars them or it scares them. He doesn’t care as long as the messenger does his job. He’ll just tell them to gear up; they can beat those two other men if they unite. Strength in unity, right?

When he reaches the spot where he left Derek and Scott, he finds them relaxing by the bank with a heap of fish flopping on the dirt. They fished so many. Stiles wants to turn back rather than face them after what he’s just witnessed. He wants to keep running and running until he’s across the earth and doesn’t have to meet their reproaching eyes, their accusatory looks that will malign him. Why didn’t you save Boyd? Why did you leave him behind and run?

Stiles looks down with a pained face.

He tries to even out his breathing, and calm his voice to keep from sobbing. He squares his shoulders and heads their way. They look up at him, and the first thing they see is the wild rabbit dangling down the spear.

“You actually caught one!” Scott bursts out laughing, bowing down to laugh some more. It makes Derek chuckle too.

Looking at them now, Stiles knows he could never be able to say anything. He finds himself slowly dropping his gaze, and then looking away to give a half-smile.

But apparently, Derek picks up on it. “Hey,” he starts, tilting his head to get a glimpse of the other’s face that is being obscured by his fringes. “You look a little pale, are you okay?”

That’s when Scott studies his friend, and he asks the same question. Stiles shakes his head in a half-hearted manner and tells them it was just the rabbit’s fault for making him break a sweat.

“So I suppose you didn’t clean the fish?” he asks, throwing the others off his rail. “You guys know that we need to scale, skin, and gut the fish before we eat it, right?” They only stare innocently at him, so he sighs and puts the rabbit with the spear onto the ground. “You’re not getting off this nasty work,” he tells them. “Come on. Give me a hand if you want to eat.”

After he shows them the ropes, he volunteers to skin the rabbit –the nastier job. The blood that soon pumps from the neck wound of the rabbit takes Stiles back to the clearing, and to Yu’s hands that got gored like a piece of log getting axed. He suddenly feels the bile rising and the color drain from his face. He staggers away from the mess, lifting a hand to hide his mouth if something did come out. However, the blood and hair on his hands from slicing the rabbit’s neck open, force the meager contents of his stomach out.

Scott is soon by his side, rubbing his back in circles as Stiles heaves beside a tree, retching with visible force even though there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up. He takes the bottle from him and waves his heavy nausea off as being tired from skidding through the woods, but his breathy voice leaves them with little suspicion. The last thing Stiles wants is to come across as weak, or worse, fragile. He tells his friend to stop hovering. Although he sees the hint of hurt at his gentle treatment being rejected harshly, Stiles doesn’t do anything to right things between them. He knows Scott’s always ready for Stiles to worry him. He doesn’t want to worry him, would rather not. It’s about damn time Scott stops taking care of him and starts looking after himself a little. Whatever, Stiles needs  **–** he  _has_  a lot to do. His list is growing more prominent but they’re short on time.

They all finish and Derek sounds quite proud of his and Scott’s work so far. For now, they should head back and share the food with everyone. Because he still had to put the fish in hand-made skewers, Stiles was grateful that Derek knew how to build a campfire hence saving him the trouble of having to do it himself. The ones in the van start peering out of the windows. They’re lured by the smell of fish fillets cooked over a decent-looking campfire. He tries to rope them in by telling them to join in, grab a bite. But Erica pushes Allison off the windows, and it saddens Stiles. Whatever, Erica will taste the other’s wrath eventually because a bossed-around Lydia is probably more dangerous than the psycho culprits. And it dawns on him that it’s a damn poor choice of words.

Not even five minutes go by when the door of the van gets pushed open and Lydia and Allison come out running. For a start, they might have come running so that even if someone were to shoot an arrow at their direction, they’d fail. Nobody can get a clear shot on moving objects. And to finish, they were probably tired of Erica’s hard streak of false vanity because they’ve just crushed her ego by choosing food over her words of safety and assurance inside the van.

Stiles is frantically delighted. He can do without the self-flagellation, and just enjoy the company if it lasts. He doesn’t know what will happen after today, or if they are even going to live through the night to see another day. If they’re together, giving each other sanctuary from the predators that come in the form of cold-blooded killers, who are waiting for the perfect chance to make them join Boyd, it will make the nightmare a little easier to go through, hopefully. Everyone is eating and commenting on how they’d gobble down their mothers’ food once they’re saved because Boyd and Isaac have probably made it to the town. Stiles suddenly pauses. Should he tell them now? Would it be wise to strip them away from their only hope by dropping the bomb? Just what is he supposed to do?

“… s? Stiles?” Scott is the one calling him out. When he glances up at him, Scott wants to know why he stopped eating altogether.

He looks around at every one of them. The nightmarish words on the tip of his tongue, and it hurts to see them look so expectant. Stiles looks at the food again and decides to take some for Jackson. “He needs some food in him too.” The others agree but can’t quite be sure that that is all that he wanted to say, but not that it matters. The food smells good.

When Erica finally accepts to open the door for him so he could give food to Jackson, Stiles walks into the van and crouches beside the injured one, waking him up gently. He helps him eat, and although Jackson is taking his sweet time chewing the food, Stiles tolerates it because he’s already had his share. It wouldn’t hurt to help someone who can’t even sit upright just yet seeing how his chest is still swathed with bandages. Besides, being able to help someone rather than getting helped feels really good. It gives his spirit a boost and right now he feels like nothing can stop him. He looks over at Erica who is perched by the door, peering at her friends joined in one circle, stuffing their stomachs and squabbling over freshwater. Stiles can’t stand it anymore.

“Trying to stay alive is a priority, Erica,” he starts. “But in times like these it’s best if you try to have fun with your friends.”

The other’s eyes look back at him, and she leans back on the headrest of the seat behind. “Fun?” she echoes, trepidation and derision both twanging in her tone. “There’s a psycho out there who’s trying to kill us in case you didn’t notice.”

Stiles sighs. “I know,” he said. “I’m aware of that.”

“And your great plan is to have fun?” she scoffs again, a little enraged.

“Or you can mope here by yourself, see if anyone gives a damn,” Stiles shrugs, “personally, I don’t.” At this, he helps Jackson to another bite. “Maybe we  _are_ going to die, but I certainly wouldn’t spend my last breath in a van, waiting for someone to come and rescue me. And before you get all huffy and puffy on me, I want you to know that spit-roasted rabbit and grilled fish could be our last meal. So Erica” –he looks away from Jackson as well because the threatening tears fall– “get rid of that hard streak you have. Go out there, talk to your friends.”

He hears the other swearing under her breath after a few long seconds spent in complete silence. The door rattles open, and Erica finally leaves. Stiles’ eyes roam about the van’s interior a little aimlessly before looking back at Jackson.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson says softly, his voice merely a rasp. Stiles shushes him, tells him to save his energy. Jackson shakes off the other’s hands and repeats his apology with tears streaming down his eyes this time. “I’m sorry for making fun of you the other day,” he says. “I wish your heart weren’t this big, I wish you punched me the minute I blurted it out.” He breaks into a sob and Stiles begs him to “just… stop, please.” He probably had a point because Jackson sobs turn into a sudden fit of coughing so Stiles finds himself obliged to look around for a water bottle.

He searches around fervently, and he finds one by Derek’s bag. He goes to fetch it but his fingers pull on the straps as well, and the bag tilts over and falls. Stiles returns to the emergency at hand, lifting the other a little up to help him drink. Jackson finally relaxes and falls back to sleep. Stiles collapses on his haunches, relieved that he was quick or the other could have choked on his saliva. He makes to rub his nape, and that’s when he sees it, the lopsided bag, showing some of its contents. He crawls towards it, keeping an eye on the door from time to time. And that’s when he finds a digital object that looks somewhere between a two-way radio and a MURS. Stiles’ heart gives an abrupt jolt, and the hair on his neck bristles.

“What’ you doing?”

He spins his head around, finding Derek by the door. “Uh,” he gives a nervous cough. “Jackson was feeling a lot of pain, didn’t know what to give him and he sort of passed out.” He hopes Derek doesn’t pick on the fact that he was snooping, and he just got caught.

Derek eyes the wheezing man with a frown, taking in the beaded sweat on his forehead that signifies that he is indeed in pain. “He shouldn’t be in so much pain,” he says, now approaching the two. “His vitals weren’t even hit.”

“Just a guess,” Stiles starts, “but cracked ribs must be a bitch.”

Derek rolls his eyes and squats beside Stiles. “You can leave it to me now,” he says. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“No problem,” Stiles shrugs, now levering up to his feet and slowly backing away from the two. He hears the scuffle of feet and Scott is soon barging in, panting. “Guys,” he clears his throat after he swallows hastily, “little help here?”

Stiles looks from the door back to Derek, who is already looking up at him with an arched brow. They both dart towards the door and go outside, finding Erica and Lydia yelling at each other.

“What the hell, a girls’ fight?” Stiles says half-heartedly.

The way Derek’s shoulders stiffen at the scene raises Stiles’ alarms. He takes in the deepening divots in his cheeks and the dark glimmer in his eyes, signifying the man’s worry; a worry for something that isn’t the fight or the girls. But when he goes to ask, the man faces away, not willing to talk.

 It stops at that as Lydia gives her friend a slap across the face, Stiles ignores Derek and dashes to stop them. He hears Erica calling bull because she’s being accused unjustly of stealing the other’s music player. She lifts a fisted hand to give a hook, but Stiles throws himself in between them and he gets smacked instead.

“What are you two doing?”

Erica points an index at Lydia. “She’s throwing accusations at me without any proof.”

“The fact that Derek saw you is enough of a proof!” she bellows. “You bitch!”

“He’s lying!” Erica grinds out, “I didn’t steal anything!”

Lyia gives a hysterical laugh. “You lying bitch!” she shouts, now making to hit her with one of the campfire poles, but Derek stops the movement midair. “You two need to calm down,” he says, “or you might hurt someone.”

Lydia grits her teeth as her eyes flash a glare at the taller male, and she gives his hand a hefty shove before heading to the van. When they ask where she is going, she shouts, “Going back home!”

Stiles fears her actions in a moment of anger, so he follows her. Just when his hand is almost at Lydia’s arm, she slips into the van and closes the door. The engine revs and sputters a cough before finally coming to life with a rumble, headlights beaming. She ignores how they’re telling her to stop because the vehicle isn’t functioning, and it might overturn because of the ‘deflated’ tire. She stomps on the accelerator. The van moves and proceeds down the dirt road.

Stiles races closely behind, waving his hands at the view rear mirror as if he’s bringing an F6 jet in for landing on a carrier. He doesn’t notice Derek rushing after him until after he pulls him by the elbow. The two of them fall to the ground with Stiles straddling the other.

In an expected beat, a blinding light like a sunbeam flashes, followed by a reverberating muffled rumble that sends the blasted debris upward. Soon it graduates to a massive fire eruption, sending a shockwave that blows away whatsoever is unfortunate enough to get in its path. Stiles’ hair, along with his torn shirt, ruffle at the impact of the powerful wind. He feels Derek wrapping an arm around his back and the other around his head, bringing him closer to shelter him. Bit by bit, the sound of the explosion gets ebbed to cracking and popping .

When Stiles looks up from Derek’s shoulder, he finds Scott groaning. The campfire is scattered on the ground, and the rest of the group is skulking towards the safety by the trees. Stiles and Derek finally sit up, and the harrowing scene of the van being eaten by fire and smoke makes Stiles freeze on the spot.

“…leave…”

He hears the other man’s muffled voice and can feel him hoisting him up.

“...might be… killed… we need to….”

Stiles doesn’t care.

Jackson and Lydia were both in that van when it got blown up, and Stiles can’t even think of a worse ending than that.

A loud guttural scream is what finally takes him out of it as Allison comes closer to them teetering with shock and hopelessness. “No!” She cries out, the tears getting smeared with smoke over her cheeks. “Lyd! Oh my God!”

Scott lifts up like a hypnotized zombie. He wobbles his way towards her and takes her in a hug as the latter sobs her heart out.

“Why!” She whimpers, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! Oh God why!”

Scott hugs her tighter. Just hearing those pained cries makes Stiles’ heart break and without even realizing it, he finds himself shedding tears as well.

  “Guys,” Derek steers their attention to him now. “They could still be out there, let’s get out of here!”

Stiles nods. They make their way to Erica and he tells them to buckle up because they’re making a run for it. Erica shakes her head, pale and shocked. “This is the safest place to be at right now,” she mumbles, now wrapping her arms around herself. “Whoever blew up the van can’t get to us as long as we take cover here.”

“Erica!” Derek bawls, grabbing her by his forearm and giving her a firm shake. “You’re not getting cold feet now of all times!”

Allison jumps into the other’s personal space. “Leave her alone!”

“Seriously?” Derek’s scoff is a little exasperated. “Are we seriously going to do this?”

Erica wilts to the background as the other two glare each other.

“This is not the time for this,” Stiles seethes, stomping closer to the duo in high dudgeon. “We’re in this together; being at each other’s throats now is pretty inconvenient and unproductive. Don't you think?”

Just as Erica starts to look away and contemplate Stiles’ words of unity, they hear Derek's shriek followed by the muffled thud of a body hitting the ground. Everyone ducks and attentively eyes their surroundings with bated breath. Stiles dives to his knees to assess their predicament, kneeling beside Derek who is gasping now. He tries to inspect the wound, but Derek’s hand doesn’t allow it.

“Derek,” he snarls, “you have to let me see.”

They both know that once Derek removes his hand, the blood is going to ooze out. The only supplies that could stop the bleeding were in the van and the van is out of commission now. But they can always make do. Stiles is going to make sure of it. Slowly, Derek lifts his hand off showing a nasty puncture wound around the bicep. Stiles finds himself panting so fast. A full-fledged hyperventilation promising a sudden lambasting from Scott about his lack of self-care, and he is so not ready for that.

“Derek, it’s a…” he wipes his face with a sweaty and shaky hand. “It’s a gunshot wound.” And he’s not sure whether Derek pales at the news or the resultant blood loss. He faces the others. “Would it be insensible of me if I sent you guys first?”

Scott shoots closer. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Stiles doesn’t want him to either, but it’s probably safer for everyone if they don’t herd to the same spot and attract unnecessary attention that is bound to get them all killed.

“I have to take the bullet out,” he says over his shoulder as he takes out his folding knife from his back pocket. “We might get attacked while you’re all waiting, so better safe than sorry,” he says. “Go before us. At least you get to have a head start; we’ll be following very soon.”

Derek looks at him with something akin to bewilderment. “You should leave too,” he tells him. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

Stiles is a little lost as he keeps on taking in the glint in the other’s eyes. Soon he figures they’re tears of pain that have welled up, and that decides for him. “Allison,” he finally looks away. “Give me your lighter and then lead the rest into the woods. Try to be as stealthy as possible.”

Allison heeds his order and gives him her disposable lighter. After sharing one last glance, Scott pulls Erica and Allison and starts shoving them ahead, because for some reason, their eyes can’t leave Stiles’. He mouths ‘we’ll meet soon’ to them with a reassuring smile.

He watches as they disappear between the trees, and then he picks up his pocket knife again, before flicking the spark wheel once, twice; nothing. His sweaty hands aren’t exactly helping, and he curses every single time.

Derek snatches the lighter from him and flicks the spark wheel instead with such resolution that brings the flame to life. Stiles doesn’t even feel grateful for that. He floats the knife within the flame and then looks up at Derek. “Sit tight and enjoy the ride.”

Derek’s smirk is grimaced.

Stiles inserts the crown of the knife into the wound, and Derek stirs. Stiles ignores him all along because trying to keep the pain to a bare minimum isn’t on his bucket list for now. He prods deeper and finally meets the lead. He can hear Derek groaning. One fleeting glance at his face shows him the man squeezing his eyes shut. He eventually starts digging out the bullet, and Derek smothers an outright scream. When the bullet spurts out, Stiles scrutinizes it for any missing chunks. Thankfully, he finds none. He takes off his shirt and starts tearing it up. He leaves a part which he eventually wraps around the wound. “That ought to stop the bleeding, I’ll sew you up when we get out of here,” Stiles prompts. “Come on,” he strains as he helps Derek up. “We need to catch up to them.”

The two skid across the dirt in a haphazard gait. Stiles keeps an eye out for any threats while checking in on Derek now and again. Then he plunges forward, ushering Derek to stay close. They finally catch up to Scott and the rest huddled together beside a few bushes.

“You guys made it!” Erica rejoices. “Thank God.”

Derek and Stiles crouch down as well. “What did you guys find out?” Stiles demands. He can feel anxiety looming closer. He knows that if he keeps mulling it over it’s going to stress his brains out, and he knows what stress does to his body.

“There are two of them,” Scott reports. “One of them is using some sort of firearm, and the other is using a machete. A big one.” He trails off, taking notice of Stiles’ undeterred expression. He can't help but get the sneaking suspicion that this is more than just his friend holding himself together. “Why aren’t you surprised?”

The other three pick up on his remark, and are soon looking toward Stiles for answers. Sweat builds on his brow as the questioning gazes burn his skin, and he breaks, looking away. He’d been trying to stave off the moment for when he had to confront them. But now that it’s time, he finds himself recoiling from the discussion.

“Stiles,” Scott hardens his glare.

Really, it doesn’t daunt him in the least, but he owes them an explanation.

“Let’s just head somewhere safe for now,” he says, “I’ll tell you everything then.”

And as they finally accept his deal, they rise very cautiously so that the next arrow or bullet doesn’t go through their eyes. Suddenly, something alerts them when the bushes rustle. They shrink away from them, but Erica’s movement is quickly halted as a bulky hand latches onto her hair. The culprit then emerges from the shadows –a bull-necked, middle-aged man whose stomach is lopping over his belt. She nails the hand on her hair, desperate to fight her way from his clutch.

Stiles knows for certain it’ll be futile so he embarks on and tries to scrape the man’s arm with his pocket knife, just so that he’d loosen his grip for them to get Erica away from him. However, Scott stops him midway with his hysterical crying and begging.

They all watch as the man lifts his machete and severs Erica’s head off, the arterial spray coating the surrounding area and the man’s clothes and face in blood. Allison lets out a despaired scream that shakes Stiles out of his horrified daze. Erica’s head rolling down to his feet like a soccer ball was not a really cute thing to witness. It would traumatize him for years to come –if they ever leave these woods in one piece, that is.

He quickly turns around and pulls his friend, Scott, by the arm, adamant on fleeing the murderer.

They keep on running with no definite destination in mind, only thoughts of running away from the claws of a killer who has just beheaded a friend right in front of their eyes. The sun setting is not a great help right now. God, Stiles has no idea when this is going to end. Suddenly, an arrow shoots towards their direction and Scott tells them to duck, which they do. They quickly pick themselves up from the improvised fall and continue to run. Allison trips and Scott rushes back to help her up, a hand in hers as they catch up with Stiles and Derek. Stiles can see the darkness slowly encroaching on them, and it twists his heart with agony: how the four of them are going to spend the night learning the endless chapters of survival.

Scott is soon out of breath, and he tells them he has to rest or he will faint. Granted, Stiles can’t leave him behind so he offers to keep him company while he tells the other two to keep going. But then even Derek flops down beside a tree, panting. “We’d all use a little rest,” he says, his sharp eyes falling on Stiles’.

Said male feels immensely grateful, but he soon masks the delight on his face with a honed stoic expression. Allison also sits down, coughing slightly after all the running they’ve done.

“You guys think we lost’ m?” Scott wonders, now seeking a conversation after all the slaughter they have witnessed. Especially Stiles who had the wretched fortune of seeing Boyd get chopped as well.

“I don’t know,” Derek offers, “but we’ll keep an eye out.”

“Stiles” –Scott’s voice and eyes are so void it scares Stiles– “What’re you hiding?”

He knows there’s no escape from the question just as there’s no chance to avoid the killers, so he decides to tell them. It’s okay. At least it’d make the burden lighter. He slants back on the tree stump and lets out a full-bodied sigh. “I saw two men earlier,” he starts, “I had been tracking the rabbit when I came upon a clearing, and I saw the same two men in a clearing, dragging a body.”

The rest sits up.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to scare you guys.” He looks over his lap. “We’d been dealing with a lot, and I didn’t wish to pile it on.”

“Did you see the body?” Derek asks, his eyes widening.

Stiles nods, and he can’t help but cover his face with shame and sadness. “It was Boyd’s.”

“What?” he barks. “And you thought it was so smart to keep it to yourself?”

He already knew they would retaliate like this, so he looks down in shame again and lets it come to him. Scott’s hitched gasp is what kills him.

“Where’s Isaac then?” He comes up to him, gripping him by the shoulders since Stiles is shirtless and there isn’t anything to keep Scott grounded. “Where is he, Stiles?”

He shakes his head like a man who came out of war. “I don’t know,” he says, “I only saw Boyd and he was already beaten to a pulp.” He doesn’t quite understand the withdrawn gesture his friend makes next: pulling away and sitting down with his knees to his chest.

“So the only ones who were supposed to send us help are… gone.” Allison comments, and that’s probably the wrong thing to say because her words have just caused them to flinch so hard.

“I didn’t see Isaac,” Stiles reminds in hopes to cover up for the other losses. “So maybe he made it, we don’t know for sure.”

“Alright,” Derek tenses as he stands up, “we need to keep moving.”

“What’s the point?” Allison grits out, “I don’t even know where we are.”

“Neither do I, but I don’t see a point in sitting here and waiting to die,” Derek drones, now inspecting everything around him. “It drops cold after sunset, so we better find a place to keep out of sight at least until the sun comes up.”

They all follow in a lethargic manner, in a way that speaks volumes of how they’re lost, or how they’re tired and  _just want to go home_. They know since their families must have tried to reach them by now, they’ll soon figure out something is wrong. They will send for search and rescue, but even that could take days. They don’t have that kind of free time when a man is flaunting a machete around, and the other is shooting arrows at anything that moves. After the long trek, going up and down, creeping between trees and scrubby bushes and crossing a river (just following Derek’s lead really), they finally come across a small cave on the other side of the river’s bank. They all feel delighted as they scurry to the safety they might find inside.

Stiles is the last to walk in, but honestly, he doesn’t want to. Right now, he needs a private place because everything that’s been happening in the past three days is finally taking its ugly toll on him and he can feel his gait getting more awkward. The little fragments of ataxia eventually want to hit him with full force, but he breathes through it. He watches as Scott and Allison sit side by side in a corner and Derek flips his phone open for some light. The latter then lights up an old lantern that he finds between two rocks like that was his purpose.

“They might see the light!” Scott reproaches. “Turn the damn thing off.”

Derek tells him they won’t and goes on his way to discover the cave.

Stiles, although muddle-headed and wobbly because his blistering migraine is back, he slowly takes his pocket knife out and lifts it up in front of his face.

“What the hell are you doing now?” Allison rebukes.

The other two look at him. His sweat-crusted face and bleary pupils momentarily slip under his lids, unfocused. His body is tottering back and forth. Soon all of them are on their feet, trying to will Stiles to put his weapon down. They’ve just found good cover for themselves from the taunting force, with which the two psychos are wreaking havoc outside, and now they have to deal with this too?

“Stiles, what are you doing, man?” Scott demands, brows meeting in a frown.

He clears his throat and gulps noisily, “Get away from him.” He gestures to Derek with his knife. Said male looks genuinely betrayed and surprised. And it doesn’t deter Stiles. “Are you deaf?” He howls at them. “Get away from him!” Derek’s legs shift just a little, and Stiles is soon pointing the knife in his direction. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Hold on a MO!” Scott says. “Just what is it that you think you’re doing?”

But Stiles’ eyes never leave Derek's. “You asshole,” he starts. “You really had me fooled.”

Derek slowly lifts his hand in a surrendering manner. “Stiles, please,” he begs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah?” Stiles scoffs, now wiping his forehead that’s glittering with more sweat. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I eventually put two and two together after I gave you the rope and you hung yourself.” He starts. “You said you were trekking, didn’t you?”

“Is that a crime now?” Derek half laughs, his eyes glancing over to the other two for their support on this one. The other two keep silent because they want to see how this pans out.

Stiles chuckles. “No, but that’s just the thing,” he says. Derek flashes a sad look at him, and he adds, “I didn’t find any map in your bag. Just now you told Allison you didn’t know where we were either, but you led us right to this cave. You even flaunted about how the other two aren’t going to find us even with the lights on.”

“Yes.” Derek shrugs. “But that doesn’t prove anything,” he says. “I did come across this cave before, and I somehow managed to follow on my memory, that’s all there is.”

“Then how do you explain the two-way radio I found in your bag?” At this, Allison and Scott snap their head to Derek, waiting for his explanation but Stiles doesn’t even allow it. “I remember you were telling us you didn’t bring your walkie-talkie with you,” he reminds them. “He told us that with his own mouth, but I found a two-way radio in his bag just before the explosion.”

“Yes, I carried one with me.” Derek admits. “But its battery is off, been that way for a couple of days now.”

Stiles feels his headache going up a few notches, and he knows sooner or later he’s going to be convulsing on the ground if this keeps up so he’d better wrap things up quickly. “The one who shot Jackson was the same one Erica saw, and she’s the one who told us what he was wearing.” He starts, and the others anticipate what kind of accusation will make its way out this time around. “So basically, we all learned the same information, and only today did we get to see that there’s more than one killer, but” –he smirks, his eyes still rolling under his lids and going back to focus– “You kept referring to him as they.”

Allison and Scott slowly skid away from Derek when he only stares blankly at Stiles.

“You knew it was more than one when we were still dealing with Jackson getting shot.” His voice is growing accusing as he talks more. “You told us about dead carcasses, but we’ve been running inside these woods for half a day and didn’t come across any. You knew the van was going to explode which is why you stopped me from getting to Jackson and Allison.”

Derek lowers his head.

“You tried to play us from the get-go, and I gotta say, you probably have.” Stiles reveals, his voice resonating in the cave. “But you referring to the killer as them was a dead giveaway, you sick son of a bitch.” When Derek looks up, that hint of shock and betrayal is replaced by an icy cold glare. His tongue snakes over his predacious smirk.

“You got me.”

The other two gasp in shock and approach Stiles instead.

“You work with those two?” Allison demands.

Derek looks insulted for a moment. “Don’t lump me up with those two lowlifes,” he huffs. “I’m not as barbaric.”

“Are you serious?” Scott yelps. “People are dead because of you, horrendously so!”

“Hey. I did save your friend, did I not?” He points his index dangerously, and Scott winces.

“He died anyway.” Stiles rasps out, feeling the sadness tearing at his heart.

Derek lets out a sigh and steps a little closer, but Stiles lifts his knife more and threatens to cut the other if he so much as neared them an inch. “I have to say,” he starts, “you’re smarter than you look.” Sneering now, “But not smart enough.”

At this, they hear footsteps closing in on the cave’s entrance. Scott and Allison look around since Stiles has to keep a guarding eye on the man before him. Their breathing hitches at the possibility of the two killers finding them now, as if they weren’t dealing with enough shit to begin with.

“You really think I’m going to let you out of that entryway?” Derek dares. When the three just stick to each other in a defending human shield, he paces about in a leisurely manner, as if he isn’t holding people captive or people didn’t die because of him. “Let me just make something clear,” he starts. “I wasn’t going to get involved. I gave my orders, and that was supposed to be about it, but then a little something happened, and I wanted to watch from the front seats.” He sighs, “I do feel bad about what happened to your friends,” he grins maliciously now. “But I’m not really sorry.”

“You asshole!” Allison growls, “You’re the mastermind behind this psycho plan to kill us one by one?”

Derek tilts his head. “Pleasure to meet you.” His smile is cordial it makes Stiles’ already nauseated stomach lurch.

“But,” Stiles starts, “you saved Jackson’s life.” He ends it less adamantly.

After a moment where Derek only stares amusedly at Stiles, he looks away and waves a hand. “Oh please,” he says. “I didn’t really care what was gonna happen to him, but then you were there, and I thought maybe I’d get it started with Good Samaritan charity, and you fell for it.” He smiles that conceited smile that makes the three feel like they’ve already lost the battle. “Come on, don’t look like that.” He gushes. “We’ve come so far now; I think we’re already friends!”

“Shut your trap,” Stiles bites out, “you killed my friends. You’re the one who caused all this.”

“Right.” Derek rolls his eyes and makes an aborted movement with his hand as if to tell the other that that was a given point. “I don’t really care about that either,” he says. “But Stiles” –his sharp eyes now fall on said male’s watery ones– “you guys were already broken before I stepped in. Why do you think the conflicts sparked up lately? It’s because you guys, despite acting all friendly, can’t really stand each other.” He dampens his lips when no comeback makes its way to him. “Erica was the easiest target, I must say, being insecure all the time and all.” He points at Scott. “You were already dangling on a rope with how your friend kept shutting you off. And Allison, your inferiority-complex is what got your miserable ass so far.”

“That’s why you manipulated Lydia?” Scott’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “That’s why you told me to mind my friend?” he shouts. “You were the one who played with our minds!”

“Correction,” Derek’s voice sounds deeper this time. “I just latched onto a conflict already there.” He shrugs. “I might have hinted it to Lydia that the van could still move and  that Erica had her eyes on her boyfriend. Also, I did tell you that your beloved friend wasn’t trusting you enough with his problems.” He was counting with his fingers before he stopped completely and looked seriously at them. “But you’re the ones who drove each other mad.”

“People are dead because of you!” Allison cries out, her eyes already teary at the mention of her dead friends. "You killed my friends!"

“Technically, I didn’t.” He shrugs, and now waving at the two killers. “Those two did.”

When the trio is so shocked that they can’t even bring their lips to move, Derek takes them out of their misery. “Storytime over.” He claps, and it jolts the three out of their trance. “I’m tired of playing today, aren’t you?” They glare at him but Derek doesn’t even put it into consideration as he rolls his eyes and prods his gunshot wound. “I’m covered in dirt, and my arm is killing–” At this, he looks at Stiles. “Thanks for saving me by the way.”

Stiles feels the anger taking over whatever sanity he had left. He plunges forward, wanting to erase the existence of the twisted monster he’d just saved. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Derek chuckles provokingly. “With that?” He ushers at the pocket knife. “Cute.”

Stiles collides with the other after piercing the knife through the air, but Derek catches his hand mid-air and tries to punch him. The adrenaline rush gives Stiles a new momentum and he feints with his right and ducks. He isn’t fighting for himself, he is fighting to save his and his friends’ lives as well. He throws a punch here and receives another. Derek manages to kick the knife and send it airborne, spinning. Stiles makes the mistake of following the knife with his eyes and doesn’t see when Derek moves to punch him hard on the head. Allison and Scott can’t move because the two killers are holding them by the shoulders at gunpoint. Stiles starts hearing sirens in his head, and everything starts spinning. His nausea hits the roof, and he reels on the ground with a groan.

“You think I didn’t pick up on your symptoms?” Derek says atop him, dusting off his shoulder to show them who the winner is and that he’s done it without breaking a sweat. “I’d see you swaying and paling. I knew it was just a matter of when before you got hit by a full-blown grand-mal since you didn’t take your meds at all today.”

Stiles’ right hand jerks, flexing itself in and out of a fist. He can hear Scott begging to be by his side because his seizures are usually rough, but Derek silences him with a cold glare. “Keep quiet,” he tells them, “if you make a sound, I won’t hesitate to give an order.” Once he makes sure that the two will keep quiet, he looks down at Stiles.

Stiles’ arm starts shaking violently and out of sync. His bleary eyes glancing over in a random pattern. Allison and Scott can see terror slowly dwelling up into his eyes and fear coating his already pained expression. Stiles parts his lips to say something as his left hand clutches at his head, but all that comes out are garbled groans. Nobody understands what he is trying to say. His body is getting jerked by his arm’s strange and evidently vigorous reflexes. Soon the reflexes move to his torso as well, and he looks like he is getting pulled by the waist to one side. The others can see how Stiles looks terrified with all the eyes studying him. He keeps trying to speak as nervous ticks affect his facial movement. He makes a gurgled sound, and a choked-off whimper reverberates across the rocks. The frightened look in his eyes is slowly replaced by a glassy veil that just looks so distant, and that’s where Scott’s fear intensifies. His entire body starts twitching. Small tremors traveling up and down across his body as he keeps on whimpering and wheezing, unable to stop the convulsions.

Derek looms into Stiles’ eyeshot, curious and anticipant. The close-up look tells him precisely what he needed. “His eyes are dilated.”

The revelation makes the others want to get closer and get a clear image of what’s going on to Stiles, but only Derek was allowed closer.

Stiles’ eyes are narrowing now as his jaw ticks, and his fingers tighten over his chest. He grunts in pain again as he keeps on convulsing. Just as Scott started to believe that maybe his friend wasn’t going to have a tonic-clonic. If he’d just ride out these convulsions, he’d cross to the safe side soon and would come out of it disoriented – a little bruised, yes – but fine nonetheless. A severe spasm assaults Stiles’ right side along with his right limbs. He makes short sharp gasps, and his eyes no longer focus. They simply close.

“It’s happening,” Derek comments and the rest wait to see just what exactly is going to happen.

Stiles’ middle lifts from the ground. His back arches over forty degrees, and then it slams back down. His head lifts instead, but then it slams back on the ground too. Both of his arms are smacking against the ground. It keeps repeating. The movements are harsh and unrelenting, and Stiles is making deep, guttural and muffled cries. His tousled hair is whipping around as the involuntary seizing takes over him.

“Please,” Scott croaks out. “He’s going to end up splitting his head in two if you don’t do something about it.”

The hateful look Derek sends his way just then makes his blood run cold, and he realizes he’s just sentenced himself to death. But what he doesn’t expect is Derek considering his instruction, and then he almost eats up Stiles with his eyes. “I know that.”

He can’t feel shocked anymore. He only cries in silence as the man lets his childhood friend break his skull against the ground.

Stiles’ entire body is flailing and thrashing. Soon, blood starts splattering out of his mouth and covering his jaw and neck as he keeps whipping his head and cracking it back against the ground. Scott and Allison can’t look anymore. If it weren’t for the machete guy holding him up, Scott would have been on the ground wailing.

“Shit.” Derek grinds out, “He’s biting his tongue.”

The other two pay attention again and watch as he straddles the man withering with severe seizure just close enough to manhandle him and not to get whacked by the flailing and thrashing. Derek takes his shirt off and balls it, placing it under Stiles’ head at fucking last. Then he quickly pulls back and stands at his earlier spot.

Scott finally breathes a sigh of relief. At least his friend wouldn’t end up with a concussion even if they all end up hung on meat hooks. It must have been two minutes, which means Stiles’ nightmare isn’t over yet. The higher he arches, the longer it’s going to last and the more painful it’s going to be for him with its aftermath. He wonders what his fate could be now that they all got caught by one heartless man.

Derek is still watching Stiles with, dare he say, hungry eyes that almost ravish his friend. Stiles’ body is wracked by more jolts, spasms, and convulsions. Blood continues to spurt out, and he keeps whimpering and moaning with pain.

Until he doesn’t.

Stiles slumps to the ground, head rolling across the dirt and then lolling to one side, mouth suddenly slackened.

Allison and Scott along with the other two killers watch intently as Derek crouches down beside Stiles. He looks down between his legs, and he drapes an arm over his head, covering it as he starts chuckling with malice.

“'The fuck you getting hard for?” the guy with the bow and arrows scoffs. His husky voice sends a cold shudder down Allison’s spine as she remembers how he shot arrows at them and managed to kill one. But the thing he says is what makes the tremor more spoken because, after another examining look, she sees Derek flaunting a proud hard-on.

“Fuck.” The said man lets out a deeper chuckle this time as he slowly lifts his eyes to look over Stiles. “I just came in my pants.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

His consciousness is slowly returning to him. Stiles identifies the memory foam under his back. He can hear muffled voices, and a beep, intermittent, as if coming from underwater. He drags his heavy lids open, blinking to clear the fuzzy vision as the fluorescent light assaults his pupils. The moment his bearings are intact, and he is awake enough –though a little disoriented, a vividly daunting memory flashes before him: the van, the explosion, Erica’s head rolling to his feet, blood, and more blood. Then nausea hits him like a sucker punch. He groans, rolls over, and expels the contents of his stomach: fish and roasted rabbit disintegrated by bile. The stench is so ailing, and the tang on the back of his throat is so bitter. Just as the heaving subsides, Stiles falls back on the pillow. There is a pillow under his head, and he almost hates himself for even thinking it’s fluffier than the headrest of his seat in the van. He soon realizes that he is, in fact, unclothed. At this, he fights beyond the fuzziness and disorientation to sit up and study his surroundings.

 

It’s a twenty-eight square meter, windowless room with plastered walls and a wooden door across his bed. It’d have looked mostly empty if it wasn’t for the single bed he’s currently leaning on, the DRE wave-line monitor next to it over a workbench, and the IV pole. He follows the tube of the IV bag to the nook of his arm as a needle has been injected into the flesh. His other hand’s index is prickled by a blue pulse oximeter. But what gives him the crawly feeling is the spoken itch in the crown of his penis. He peels the cover off and finds a rubber tube inserted into his meatus and connected to a PVC urine bag which is attached to the bed frame below the level of his bladder. He knows better than to mess with any of the equipment, especially the one inserted into his meatus, but a nagging feeling deep within him is upping him to break free from these tubes and needles and walk out of that door. He knows he isn’t in a hospital. Even the scent of bleached floors and bed sheets couldn’t fool him. He also knows that if he isn’t in a hospital it only means the worst of his nightmares has happened, and he’s being held in here for someone’s entertainment.

 

He plugs the needle out of his arm with a croaked hiss. The prickling oximeter is annoying, so it goes next, but the tube inside the crown of his cock is what makes him hesitate. He pokes at it to determine its depth, but it proves it’s quite deep and even reaches his bladder. He inhales in a shaken breath before pulling at it, feeling the discomfort of the tube rubbing him from the inside; he eventually leaves it before he hurts himself or causes an infection. But the urgency to leave here to find his childhood friend and Allison is far more insistent for him to ignore, so he swings his legs out of bed and makes to stand up. The room soon spins inside his head and he forces his eyes closed, willing the dizziness away. He decides he doesn’t have time to play patient as he holds on to every inanimate object on his way and skids towards the door with the urine bag in his hand.

 

He doesn’t care that he isn’t wearing anything. He doesn’t even care that a tube is dangling along with his penis. He only wants to get out. His unoccupied hand clutches at the door handle and presses it. It opens with an ominous creak. Outside, Derek is standing there, looking back at him with cold eyes. Stiles recoils from the door, from the other man, from his eyes. He backs away very carefully as Derek, dressed in a lab coat, walks in.

 

“So you’re up.” He drawls, the hints of a coming smirk are slowly revealing, “Took your sweet time, too.”

 

Stiles stills when he is far enough, but the uneasiness doesn’t ebb as Derek’s loafers clack the planked floor when he approaches him.

 

“Where are Scott and Allison?” Stiles asked in a shaky breath. “Where am I?”

 

Derek twists the corners of his lips and tilts his head, but the movement is so fleeting before he speaks again. “For someone who almost died, you sure sound healthy.” He ignores the horrified stare aimed at him as he shrugs, spinning his index clockwise in the room. “This is your new home.”

 

Alright, Stiles gets this part, and as sick as it sounds he only ignores it because fuck you, you sick bastard. Stiles is going to leave this place and will make Derek swallow his words when he torches this place down. “Where’s my friend?” He shoots the other a derisive glare when a sudden memory of Scott’s crying picks at his brain.

 

“Now, now,” Derek relents, thrusting his hands into his lab pockets. “How about you go back to bed?” He suggests. “I don’t know if those shaky legs of yours can carry you anymore. I bet you’re feeling quite groggy and–”

 

“Don’t fuck with me!” Stiles berates, fumingly.

 

The calm expression over Derek’s face morphs into one which he can’t read: void and titles trouble. Derek draws closer thus making Stiles back away from him again until the two are cut short by the bed. Stiles’ eyes are on Derek’s cold ones all the way, on edge. Studying any changing signs that might tell him he’s reached the end of his life. Derek crouches only slightly and uses a hand to probe Stiles’ inner thigh; the latter flinches from the fingers brushing against his skin. He pushes Derek off when he feels he is being pressed down.

 

“Get your filthy hands off me!” Stiles yelps through a strained voice.

 

“Stop moving.” Derek orders, “I have to unclip the catheter.”

 

Stiles sits motionless with his legs spread open at the edge of the bed. Derek kneels by them after putting on disposable gloves. He resumes his work, and Stiles only watches. He is aware of the fact that he doesn’t want this man anywhere near him, but the image of him haring off between the trees when he makes a run with a urine bag is a lot more disturbing for him to allow. He watches as Derek closes the valve of the bag because there isn’t any urine to empty. Stiles assumes that’s most likely because he wet his pants during his seizure. Derek takes out a syringe from his pocket and pushes it into some port. Stiles watches intently as water begins to fill in the syringe.

 

“I need you to relax.” Derek suddenly requests as he disposes of the gloves along with the urine bag and the syringe. “I’m removing it now.”

 

Stiles sits up properly, not anticipating pulling out a four or five inches tubing into his bladder. But he bears with it when one of Derek’s gloved hands holds his cock, and the other gently pulls on the catheter. Stiles hisses at first, he lifts his eyes just briefly, finding Derek’s wide eyes studying his grimace with something akin to hunger, Stiles’ limbs freeze. Derek pulls on the tube more, and the movement is driving Stiles to shift to try to pull away from the burning sensation.

 

“Stay still.” Derek’s voice is so velvety. “You might end up with internal injuries if you don’t.”

Stiles would rather jump off a cliff that overlooks a valley of flames than obey a murderer’s order, but the thought of internal injuries inside his bladder, or worse, his penis, isn’t very appealing, so he eventually acquiesces. The burning sensation remains only temporary before it leaves him completely when Derek manages to remove all of the tube.

 

He straightens up, taking off the second pair of gloves and inspecting Stiles’ clinked face. “You’re gonna feel uncomfortable the next time you take a leak but you won’t have to endure it for too long. It eases off after a couple of days.” He says, “Also, it’s normal if you see some blood in your urine, you don’t have to panic.” Saying so, he gathers the dispersed supplies and makes for the door.

 

“I asked you a question,” Stiles says after the man, who pauses midway until he words his question again. “Where’s my friend?”

 

Derek doesn’t give the other the answer he wants nor does he spare him a glance as he opens the door and closes it after he is outside. Stiles hears the clanging of keys before he picks on its final click. So, he’s being locked in, not that he didn’t expect it. Derek is being so darn stupid leaving him alone with all these equipment that he sure as hell can use as an alternate for a key. He tugs at the needle of the IV tubing and plucks it out. He looks around for something to replace a wrench but eventually makes for the door when he finds none. He kneels by the door and starts picking the lock, but the realization leaves him out of breath when he finds another object inserted into the lock from the other side. He soon understands that Derek has left the keys inside the hole so that Stiles couldn’t open it from the inside.

 

Stiles slumps on the door, defeated. He’s been outsmarted again.

 

Derek always has the upper hand in everything, and it makes him feel like he is being drifted into the other’s pace whether he likes it or not, which he loathes. He loathes the man. Everything he does or says is loathsome. He killed his friends, and God knows what else he did to Scott and Allison.

 

 

Stiles had come to discover an indoor bathroom when he found a camouflaged white knob blending with the same color of the walls. The bathroom was small and plain with a sink, a flush toilet and a shower faucet, nothing for him to use as a weapon for when his escape plan kicks off, because it will, by God Stiles will make it.

 

The keys jingle, a sound that sends a tremor of queasiness through Stiles’ body. Then the door to the room opens again, and Derek saunters in without a lab coat this time. He is pushing a service trolley lined with a few dishes of food and a few cups. Stiles walks out of the bathroom, his steps calculated and careful as he approaches the bed.

 

“Don’t be so stiff,” Derek said with a smirk after he takes in the naked man from head to toe with entertained eyes.

 

Stiles’ brows twitch a bit before he braces himself some more, tensing with apprehension and caution.

 

“Well, not that I care.” Derek shrugs when there is nothing forthcoming. He pushes his hands into his pockets and adds “brought you some food, think you can keep it down?”

 

Stiles hardens his glare, “Where’s Scott?”

 

Derek lets out a small sigh before rolling his eyes, “Counter-question me again and see what happens.” He says it so flippantly but the threat is evident and daunting in there that Stiles knows better than to overlook it. Derek’s eyes then fall on the mess Stiles made after he woke up. “You still haven’t cleaned that up?” At this, he beckons to the vomit beside the bed’s foot with his head. Stiles glances over at it fleetingly before looking back at Derek, “I better not find it next time I’m here, or you’re gonna be cleaning it with your tongue.”

 

Stiles believes him to be psychotic enough to do it, make him clean his vomit with his tongue, so he makes an innate note to cleanse it after Derek leaves. As yielding and as appeasing as that sounds, Stiles doesn’t think cleaning something he cast from his stomach with his tongue would be any less humiliating, so if he is to choose between the less of two evils, damn straight he’ll choose to keep his tongue clean.

 

They hold eye contact for a brief moment before Derek nears the bed, his sharp eyes never leaving Stiles’, and neither is Stiles’. Derek takes his hands out of his pockets and sits at the edge of the bed, a leg crossing over the other as he smiles thinly. His movements are smooth and gracious that if Stiles didn’t witness the gory decapitation with his own eyes, he’d have seriously mistaken this psycho for royalty.

 

“Come here.” He pats the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

 

“You must really have a screw loose if you think I’ll do anything you tell me,” Stiles scoffs, and the vehemence in his eyes is more spoken that he has Derek’s complete attention. “I don’t want you anywhere near me, and I don’t want to be anywhere near you either.”

 

Derek’s smile drops and his hand precipitously darts to Stiles’. The latter gasps and before he gets to recoil it he is being pulled and pushed to the bed, he lands on it with a deep grunt. Derek is straddling him in a millisecond, his hands on his neck, squeezing the jutted veins back in. Stiles’ eyes snap open, red-rimmed and belligerent.

 

“Let me lay it out for you real clear,” Derek sing-songs, his hair parachuting over Stiles’ face, and his eyes… they’re wicked. “You seem to be under the erroneous impression that I give a flying fuck about what you want. I don’t.” He shrugs in matter-of-factly, his hands squeezing more as Stiles’ tap and scratch at them to mitigate the pressure down a little. “I own you now. Your life is mine to command, whether I kill you or let you live is my decision to make.” He says, “You have privileges now because I see it fit, but the second you become trouble I’m getting rid of you without a thought.”

 

Stiles’ eyes are looking up now but more horrified than daring, he considers the other’s words for what they are, a threat he concludes. But Derek has some other things to add so he’d end the deal as he ducks in, his nose almost touching Stiles’.

 

“Be a good boy now and do as I say.” He drones almost in a whisper, “That is, if you still want to see your friend.”

 

Stiles’ heart gives a vigorous throb before it settles down, “Is he alright?” His voice is a rasp because Derek’s fingers are still pressing on his neck. “Can I see him?”

 

“Yes and no,” Derek smiles playfully now, and then he falls silent all of a sudden.

 

Stiles feels the pressure on his neck building more, suffocating. He can feel his veins protesting and popping across his temples as his face grows redder in the shade. “L-let me…” but the hands on his windpipe press impossibly too much, and Stiles knows that if it entails strenuous effort to breathe, then he only has seconds before he blacks out. He lifts his leg to knee the other in the crotch, but Derek’s angle isn’t quite that off his waist, so he ends up flailing his leg in the air to no avail. Beyond his shallow breathing, he can hear Derek’s deep and prolonged pants, and much to his dismay, a hard-on is slowly growing in size over his hip and poking him. He glares through slanted eyes, which are slowly being blurred, finding a trace of malevolence in Derek’s that want nothing in the world but to hurt him and enjoy every bit of it.

 

Finally, Derek’s hands release him and Stiles inches in on himself, coughing and inhaling all at once. His brain finally getting some much-needed oxygen and his tendons barely relaxing.

 

“Now. Food.” Derek chirps, he pulls away and sits beside Stiles who sits up with a hardly contained wince. Those cold fingers that have been choking breath out of him will certainly bruise, and it might be hard to swallow for the next couple of days too. Derek brings the trolley nearer so he’d pick the dishes without having to go through the trouble of stretching to change between meals. “Let’s go with something easy to stomach,” he says, picking out a bowl of stew, “Your seizure was kinda rough, and you took quite the bashing to your head.”

 

“I wonder whose fault is that.” Stiles presses his lips together to feign a smile, it’s all sarcasm-heavy.

 

It earns him a furious glare, but then Derek drags on, intentionally ignoring the remark. “That’s why I pumped you heavy on anticonvulsants.” He fills up a spoon from the delicious smelling stew and aims it to Stiles’ mouth. The latter cocks a brow, getting fed by a killer, whose hands must be covered in blood from all the people he’s ended and found pleasure in, is not particularly at the forefront of Stiles’ to-do list. However, after what he’s just heard about his friend being fine, Stiles fights past this enormous temptation to snap the spoon from Derek and stab it into his eyes, and then he parts his lips. Derek feeds him down to half a bowl when Stiles finally pulls away, full.

 

“I’m leaving the table here,” Derek informs, placing the bowl back into the said trolley. “And you’d better clean that mess before I come back.” Saying so, he heaves as he pushes up to his feet, his hard-on has long since calmed down, and Stiles is grateful for that.

 

Derek waltz out of the room leisurely.

 

Stiles scrutinizes the door, and the click of the lock doesn’t escape him too. He looks at this from all sides: Derek’s mood swings that switch when it’s convenient for him, how the volatile attitude is righteously affecting Stiles and the bruises on his neck stand as a discernible proof. He knows he can’t be part of Derek’s house play, playing ‘pet’ for a murderer isn’t even that fun. It’s not supposed to be enjoyable and, damn it, Stiles gets that, but he’s doomed if he doesn’t play along. He’s banking on this to get him a friends’ reunion with Scott and Allison, hopefully soon too because this entire play is ridiculous. He glances over at the mess of grilled fish and roasted meat he made on the floor, and the stench of ailing bile finally gets to him, so he rises to his feet, uses a towel he saw hanging onto a well-installed rack inside the bathroom. He dips it good in water and makes to clear the floor with it.

 

 

An undetermined time goes by with him lying on the headboard of the bed and staring blankly at the door.

 

He doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is. He’s certainly noticed the temperature drop and is hoping October is finally bringing some rain and cold.

 

It’d be all right if Scott was receiving the same treatment. Well, minus the throttling and the threatening, getting delicious food, and having his own bathroom would be more than enough, thank you. They could figure out the rest later. What matters now is to stay in shape, especially in Stiles’ case. Although Derek said he gave him plenty of anticonvulsants, it still doesn’t stop the crushing possibilities that it might take a turn to the worst and he falls to the ground, seizing. The last one must have been pretty bad, he guesses, the egg-sized bump in the back of his head is like a traffic neon sign providing a vivid depiction of what must have gone down. It’s all the more reason he makes sure this pans out in their favor. He knows it’s not going to be easy, especially if he doesn’t know what became of Allison and his friend. Maybe it was selfish of him to ask about his friend and leave out Allison, but it’s not like Derek –if that’s really his name, was handing detailed reports back in. The sick man barely gave him anything concrete. It’d be lies for all Stiles knows, and maybe… everyone else is dead.

 

Being realistic hurts.

 

But the circumstances contrast with the speculations his dead friends used to make and as such, had no basis in reality. But Stiles knows more now, he isn’t being kept in the dark and oblivion about who the enemy and ally are. He knows the murders, and he knows his friends, all they need now is a plan.

 

 

He wakes up startled when delicate fingers glide down his neck. The bed sheets rustle harshly as Stiles withdrawals from Derek's touch. “What’ you doing?” He says over an audible gulp because those bruises ache, his voice is warring with indignation.

 

Derek lifts placating hands but keeps on sitting on the bed with his legs crossed on one another. “You’re a bit ripe,” he says, “go take a shower.”

 

Something is reeling within Stiles, willing him to keep away from those caring words and gentle fingers, to see past them at the malicious smirk and the bemused eyes. Stiles flings the cover aside and gets out of bed. He can feel Derek's eyes on his body, gluttonizing him with an enormous appetite. It’s unnerving, and Stiles finds himself bolting to the bathroom as fast as his legs can carry him.

 

“Don’t.” The order is coming, soft-spoken but intimidating. “Don’t close the door.”

 

“What.” Stiles swivels around to face the other, “I’m not entitled to my privacy now?”

 

The icy glare Derek shoots him is enough to silence Stiles, and he knows he better save that dash of condescension to himself. He retreats immediately and skids into the bathroom without a second complaint. As the water flushes down on his naked body, steamy and warm, Stiles brings his hand to his neck, barely ghosting over the skin and a powerful memory of Derek's cold fingers touching him replays without his consent. Rage almost blinds him on the spot. He wouldn’t know what to do if Derek decided this amount of touching wasn’t enough, if he suddenly woke up the next day wanting to do more than touch? It’s not that far-fetched possibility and Stiles is probably having the crisis of his life because his friends' survival and his depend on this but he doesn’t know if he’d be able to sit tight if Derek took it up a few notches and decided raping his brains out was certifiable. When he gets out thoroughly soaked, he finds Derek still sitting on the bed with his legs crossed. He cocks his head with a pair of baffled eyes announcing his confusion. “Provided that I left a towel in there for you, why the heck are you dripping wet?”

 

“Oh, that.” Stiles clicks his tongue, “Used it to clean up the floor.”

 

Derek hums, now uncrossing his legs as he stands up very slowly. “Well, that’s some slapdash attitude from a smartass like you.” Saying so, he draws nearer to Stiles whose frames tense evidently hard. “You know,” Derek starts once he halts a breath away from Stiles, the latter feels the other’s body heat oozing abundantly and putting into consideration his damp skin and the awful drop in temperature. Stiles almost slops into the radiant warmth. Derek brings up a hand and the other eyes it with visible trepidation, but only the fingernails tap at the skin of his upper arm, sliding up and down ever so gently. “You seem to lack discipline.”

 

“And you seem to lack a heart.” Stiles counters, a mix of sarcasm and admonishment tolling his tone.

 

“It’s not that I lack a heart per se,” Derek shrugs offhandedly. “I’m just impervious to any sob story I’m told while I cut into the flesh.”

 

Stiles fists his hands, the logical side of him tells him it’d all end for the worst if he hooks that stunning fist to Derek’s nose, but darn every other fiber in him is rooting for him to do it. “Huh,” he scoffs. “I gotta hand it to you, though, your perseverance is quite acute.”

 

“Well, there you have it–” Derek glides those fingers to the area under Stiles' left ear, kneading sensually. The movement deliberately stalled. Although he’d like to secrete this from every living soul, Stiles can at least admit to himself that little flutter of his eyes when he fleetingly drowned in the sensation “–Source of my dedication.” Derek finishes lightly; it’s too brash and unassertive to add any genuineness to his statement.

 

“What’ you want from me?” Stiles suddenly blares, his brows meeting in a frown. “Why are you keeping me here?”

 

Derek clicks his lips as though he’s been asked this countless times already that it’s starting to work on some of his nerves that would rather decapitate than give a legitimate answer. The fingers rubbing along Stiles’ neckline have paused and the latter fears the onset of a full-blown verbal lambasting, or worse, a machete to his neck. But Derek soon recovers from whatever anger that’s managed to slip in, and he gives another one of his slight smiles. His fingers cupping Stiles’ shoulder now to propel him. “Get on your knees.”

 

“The fuck I am.” Stiles slaps the hand on his shoulder away and steps back, his eyes defiant.

 

Derek’s expression turns grim, and he looks unsympathetically bored stiff with life, his eyes droopy and he rolls them again. “We can compromise.” He starts, “You either go on your knees, or I make you.”

 

Stiles’ tongue snakes to wet his parched lips. He has to flee away. He has to escape from this human pile of psychosis and insanity now that his dignity is still intact. The door to the room suddenly opens again and the machete guy bursts in wearing a bloody butcher’s apron. “Derek” He says, his eyes searching Stiles’ body and his defensive posture. Derek turns his head to the man, and Stiles latches at the opportunity. He dashes to the door, but Derek is quicker as he takes an iron grip on Stiles’ elbow and pulls him back to him, the latter squirms, doing his hardest to rip off of the other’s ridiculously strong grip. He hears Derek curse beneath his breath before something stings under his earlobe. Stiles snaps his eyes open and looks at the syringe Derek’s just injected him with as he tosses it aside. He immediately lets go of Stiles who is groaning as a burning sensation spreads from the needle mark, he cups it and sashays away from Derek again, his eyes roam about the room as he pants, wincing in between.

 

Derek adjusts his dress shirt and the sleeves, his movements are firm and brisk. “Do I always have to do everything myself?” at this, he looks at the man standing by the door. “Get lost, nosy old so-and-so. And don’t think it’s over, I’m dealing with you after this.”

 

The man bows his head and quickly leaves, closing the door after him.

 

“Now,” Derek lets out a little sigh that the hindrance is gone. “I’d like you to get on the bed.”

 

Stiles is still clutching at his neck and moaning, the excruciating pain is gradually becoming unbearable as it spreads to his head. “What the hell did you inject me with?”

 

“What did I tell you about counter-questions?” He reminds, a slight degree of indignation creeping in his tone. He walks up to the other who is too absorbed in his pain to flinch away from him. He grips a fistful of Stiles’ brown strands, yanking his head back so their eyes can meet. “You see, I lied when I said I was a med student.” He smiles cheekily, “I’m a neurologist, a Harvard graduate too, E.” He snorts derisively, “I have to say, you’re quite the lucky bastard because I might be able to help you with your epilepsy.”

 

At this, Stiles shoots him a fiery glare. And instead of crunching under its heat, Derek rejoices outwardly.

 

“Come on now,” he trills hintingly, “you’re gonna make me hard if you keep looking at me like that.”

 

Stiles would have spat in the other’s face if it wasn’t for the involuntary cry of pain that escapes his mouth, resonant and miserable. Derek parts his lips and scowls, “ _Fuck_ ” he breathes out, “Do it more.”

 

Stiles staggers and forges through the wavy shapes within his eyeshot. He holds on with a hand to the frame of the bed before he dives to the floor nose first. His other hand is clutching at his hair, trying to will the pain to ease off. He can feel his entire body being assaulted with painful tremors and he feels absolutely helpless not knowing how to stop it. Just what did Derek inject him with? He looks towards said man with his own bleary eyes and almost yelps at the hungry pupils watching him with such keen fixation. Another tremor vibrates across his body and Stiles mewls with pain. But his eyes never leave Derek’s as the latter palms his crotch faintly, the enigmatic expression veiling his face drives Stiles over the edge.

 

“I’d get on the bed if I were you,” Derek suddenly offers. “Here’s a pretty brief closure. It’s a handmade magical potion, so to speak.” He starts, “It’s a liquefied substance with a tiny chemical formula that causes friction within your neurons. It won’t kill you, but it’s an equivalent to a pain inducer, so you’re gonna feel pretty crappy for the next twenty minutes or so.” He simpers, looking pleased with his handiwork.

 

Stiles tries to quickly fathom the idea of getting injected with a chemical substance that would sure as hell give him cancer in the long run, but then the question remains, “Why?”

 

Derek scoffs as if he never expected this kind of reaction, “Now that’s a stupid question to ask, Stiles.” He shakes his head, disbelieving of the reaction. He eventually crouches beside his captive, their eyes on each other’s, “you see, cutting into the flesh used to bring me so much pleasure, but I’ve grown out of it.” He shrugs, “it bores me.” Now a smirk lithers his lips, “and then I saw you seize…” he snorts, a little admiringly if Stiles cared to analyze, but then he decides against finishing his sentence and only makes do with touching Stiles’ sweaty forehead, “Just let it happen.” He says in an undertone, “Cry out more for me and make me cum.”

 

Stiles isn’t fragile as to let Derek have his way with him so he swipes the other’s hand, and coils up, holding on to the bed frame until the color leaves his knuckles. Derek doesn’t let him though as he hoists him up and pushes him to the bed. They both bounce with the impact.

 

Stiles turns to lie on his right, clutching at both sides of his head as he moans. Derek only watches. A few minutes go by with Stiles withering more and more and then something changes, the degree of pain maybe. Stiles is shouting his lungs out as his neurons get marred within him. He cries out and thrashes, still clutching at his head with both hands as tears stream down his eyes. “M-make it…” he lets out another anguished cry, “Make it stop!”

 

“Yea… ” Derek moans but it’s influenced by irrepressible pleasure. “It feels good.”

 

“Stop…” Stiles rasps out as the ability to communicate leaves him. His insides must be crumpling under the onslaught because the pain is no longer bearable. He only stares blankly and moans to protest against the pain. He feels Derek kneel beside him, more rustling, a zipper undoes, and Derek is soon panting. Stiles hears a wet sound of sticky meats flapping against one another. It only takes him that much to put two and two together and finally come out with the horrifying realization that Derek is masturbating. Another painful wave hits him, and he arches his back, moaning under the assault. Above his cloud of pain and hurt, he hears Derek’s panting picking up as well as does the sticky sound of him rubbing his cock off. Stiles never thought he’d be thankful for feeling pain, but now that he can’t see Derek jerking off, he does feel grateful, or else the image would have scarred his eyes for years to come. He eventually prays his pain could stop or he’d end up with some mental disability. Someone up there actually hears his prayers and then he is slowly drowning in darkness.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Stiles feels the burn of the IV on the nook of his arm before he hears the intermittent beeps. Though, he hears something else. Someone is talking, and that deep voice can’t be mistaken. It’s what’s become Stiles’ nightmare as of late: Derek. But he is also talking to someone else, a woman by the sound of it. Stiles forges between the haziness just to open his heavy lids, but all he manages is a groan. The voices fall silent, and he groans more but other than that, he doesn’t do anything.

 

The next time, he wakes up to someone shaking him. He hears the same voice of the woman rousing him from his comfortable yet dreamless sleep. He forces himself to open those damn eyes, and among the foggy dots, he sees a woman peering down worriedly at him.

“If…he was… your friend…”

Her voice is muffled, but Stiles knows it’s his ears that are plugged with his own sleepiness and drowsiness. And what’s that about his friend? As the realization sinks in, his eyes shoot open and he hears the bits after she starts getting frenzy, looking at him and switching to look at the door behind her.

“Oh, Derek took him to the room at the end of this hallway.”

Stiles feels the onset of a migraine, but he ignores it in favor of hearing what this wide-eyed lady has to say.

“He keeps him there.” She says, “You have to save him and leave this place!”

“Who are you?” Is what pops into Stiles’ head, but it’s a little slurred. He hopes she got the meaning at least. “Why are you helping?”

“I’m Derek’s personal assistant.” She whispers urgently, “Please.” She looks at the door and then back at Stiles again. “You need to get away. He’s getting out of control!”

Stiles’ hazel eyes finally focus, and his heart starts beating faster.

“He’s leaving for a meeting this afternoon,” she informs him hastily. “You’d better leave then!”

The door to the room suddenly flies open and the nightmarish man saunters in with his hands in his pockets, giving absolutely no care to the world. That arrogant smile is doing strange things to Stiles’ anger. He pauses by the bed and faces Stiles.

“What’ you still doing here?” He addresses the woman but his eyes never leave Stiles’.

The woman fidgets and fumbles with the IV pole, “Oh” she stutters, “I was just checking on his vitals. After the head scan, I’m quite worried that–”

“Get out.” He cuts her off with the crude order.

She nods, and her eyes fall on Stiles’. He follows her movement as she hums her understanding and scurries out of the room, her boots tapping on the plank. And then it’s just him and Derek in the room again and the deafening silence.

“So you finally came to,” Derek remarks, relaxingly.

“Not thanks to you.” Stiles counters.

As he focuses on Derek’s hands so that if he brings up a syringe suddenly he would see it, Stiles notices another thing. The white sleeved shirt he is currently wearing and the black sweatpants.

Apparently, Derek picks up on those thoughtful eyes that are currently scanning his body.

“They’re clothes,” He scorns. “I’m sure they don’t bite.”

Stiles looks away from his clothes, “I’m sure they don’t.” His words are insidious despite the triviality of the expression.

Derek cocks a brow and soon takes his hands out of his pockets, “There have been massive temperature drops lately, as you may have noticed.” He starts, skulking soundlessly closer to the bed. “And I can’t exactly allow a heater into the room, so I thought to myself what the best alternative is.” Saying so, he slowly sits down on the bed and crosses his legs. “Clothes.” He beams.

Stiles scoffs and unconsciously skids to the headboard, away from those predatory eyes that seem to desperately want to hide under the beam and the nonchalant behavior. “And here I thought you finally had a personality transplant,” he starts. “Guess this is just a new level of your assholery.”

Derek’s beam disappears.

Stiles winces inwardly, and for some reason, he can’t take his eyes off Derek. For a moment he thinks maybe this is what they call 'paralyzing fear.'

“Keep the levity coming,” He tilts his head, “it might cost you a little something though.” And when Stiles only twitches his brows at him, Derek licks his upper lip and leans into Stiles’ space; he places a couple of fingers over his captive’s jawline. “Say a hand maybe, your tongue. Maybe I’ll chop off both your arms.”

Stiles eyes the cold smirk with a pair of terrified eyes and the heartbeats in his ears are so loud he almost hears nothing. He wants to slap the hand on his face away. He wants to kick Derek off and make a run for it but his entire body is twitching with blatant fear.

“Oh I know,” Derek’s face suddenly lightens up with a creepy smile. “How about another dose of that pain inducer?”

Anything but that, Stiles shakes his head frantically and darn he knows he has just played right into his captor's hands, given him the leverage he needs to break him if he so chooses. He wants to call for a do-over, but he knows nothing will deter Derek from his vigilance.

“Though another dose of that might liquefy your brain, but you get the point.” Derek shrugs.

“Yeah I do, I mean your face is kinda telling me that loud and clear.” Stiles mutters, grouchily.

Derek’s eyes widen, “You obviously don’t,” he says, almost disbelievingly. “You really have the attention span of a happy dog.”

Stiles bears with the brunt of the insult and remains silent.

“I’d like to try something different today,” Derek sighs and takes it to the topic Stiles is so adamantly trying to avoid. “But I need you fit as a fiddle for this, so go on, take a shower first.”

“What’s that you sick fuck?” Stiles’ mouth opens again, ready to utter another bout of colorful curses when Derek’s hand comes up out of thin air and clutches his hair. Stiles winces audibly this time around as he gets pulled towards the man before him.

“Now that’s a potty mouth you have!” Derek sing-songs, gripping tightly on the smooth strands and enjoying the little-stifled winces Stiles makes under his assault. “What? You were raised in a barn or something?”

Stiles’ eyes finally fall on Derek’s, and the amusement in them doesn’t go unnoticed. Stiles then grits his teeth and glowers at the other. “You wanted me to take a shower, didn’t you?” He reminds, his hands coming up to the one clutching his hair despite the change in altitude. “Then let go.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for quite the pause. “Now,” he scoffs. “You act as though I’m under your command. Are you just dumb or are you trying my patience for real?” He gives Stiles’ head a hefty shove. “Because last time I checked, I was the one who brought you here, so I am the one who has authority over you.”

Give Stiles one reason why he shouldn’t spit in this fucker’s face.

“You’re gonna have to play by my rules if you ever want to get outta here.” He says, now hauling Stiles’ head to the back so their noses can touch. “But for now, you’re mine.” His smirk deepens evilly. “You’re my little bitch in every sense of the word.”

Their eyes roam in each other’s, defiantly from Stiles’ part, but maliciously from Derek’s.

Stiles caves in than hollering ‘in your dreams’, he knows that at this point, it’s an authority thing. Derek seems like the type who doesn’t like to be told what to do or how. He likes to play in his own rules and gladdens when his rivals follow on his pace. Stiles doesn’t cave in because he’s scared… well he is that too, but he doesn’t retaliate because, in spite of everything, Derek still has leverage. With one wrong word, Stiles can doom his childhood friend and Allison –if she’s still alive.

He starts to feel the pressure on his hair lessen, and he can finally move more freely. Without a complaint, Stiles sits up. Annoyed with the constant perfusion, he rips out the IV needle from the perforated hole on the nook of his arm that’s starting to bleed now gradually. He unclips the pulse oximeter from his thumb next and finally swings his legs out of bed. When he walks into the bathroom, he remains sentient about Derek big dislike for closed doors, especially the bathroom, so he leaves it ajar. After he takes his new clothes off and hangs them on the towel rack, he stands under the shower head, turns on the faucet, and waits for the hot water to regenerate.

The bathroom is soon steaming with misty steam, and the humidity comes in the spurts of spray droplets on the walls. Stiles kneads his scalp and enjoys the impact of water on his porcelain skin. Suddenly, novel hands rest on his hips, and Stiles makes a clipped noise of horror as his body freezes. Derek is standing right behind him, his breath coming onto Stiles’ nape, hot and shuddering.

“What…” The words are bewitched to remain unspoken, and Stiles feels the powerlessness hitting him on blast.

Derek’s mouth touches Stiles’ left ear, and the hands on the hips start to glide down towards Stiles’ groin. “Such a lush body.” He comments into Stiles’ ear. “I saw you lying there on bed,” he purrs. “You make me want to do things to you…” His hands ghost over Stiles’ cock. “Inflict unimaginable pain on your delicate skin, carve it with a scalpel, and enjoy hearing you scream.”

Stiles shrivels up under the haunting words. He knows no man should hear this and feel glee, but his treacherous body is starting to react, and his cock is embarrassingly twitching in response to the boner poking his ass. Derek then licks a spot behind Stiles’ ear and just as suddenly, he fists his cock and the latter lets out a startled yelp.

“You made me weird!” Derek bellows, his hand jerking off the captured cock relentlessly.

Stiles braces two arms onto the wall before his knees fail him too. His mouth is already letting out muffled moans, and his cock is enjoying the rough treatment. One complaint and he’d sentence everyone to death. But being sexually assaulted like this is not exactly a stroll in the park either. This could turn out pretty bad for Stiles, and he’s old enough to know the consequences.

He feels one of Derek’s hands –the one that’s not occupied with shaming him, starts to pull Stiles so he can lean back onto his shoulder. Stiles isn’t practically lucid to fight him right now especially with his orgasm looming in, so he lets Derek do as he pleases. He lets him manhandle him to lean back on him, his head on the psycho’s broad shoulder. He feels Derek’s breath coming ragged onto his ear, and just like that, the last string that connects him to sanity gets clipped, and Stiles is shooting his cum to the wall with a prolonged whimper.

 

 

 

Stiles startles awake. He sits up abruptly and relaxes a little when he finds no one in the room but him. He’s in the bed, already dressed. Derek must have help put the clothes back on him. It’s not like it makes Stiles the least bit happy. The psycho went ahead and touched him, who knows what else he did while Stiles was unconscious. And the fact that Stiles didn’t feel the sick man approaching him from behind in the bathroom stands proof that his reflexes are getting rusty.

Just then, that mysterious woman’s words echo in his mind and Stiles jumps up to his feet. He knows Derek must have left the key attached to the keyhole so he can’t use the IV needle to pick the lock, so he aims for the bathroom and tears off some toilet paper. He then makes for the locked door and crouches beside it. He folds the papers very neatly, and slides them under the door beneath the key’s level. Using the IV needle, he pokes the key and, although he fails in the first two-three attempts, the key eventually falls on the papers without a clang. He slowly pulls the papers towards him, careful not to make the key tip over. At last, he holds the key in his hand and quickly uses it to unlock the door, peering out stealthily, and, luckily, there’s no one outside. It’s a long hallway but he can’t help but think things are looking up for him.

The woman said that Scott is inside some room at the end of the hallway, right? Stiles will free him and then the two will get out of here and tell the police everything, and hopefully they’ll rescue their friend Allison. He swivels in all directions, his ears alert for any sound and his eyes surreptitiously looking around him for any movement. The tiled hallway finally comes to an end, and Stiles finds a wooden door with a key sticking out. He guesses Derek’s been doing the same trick here too.

“Where’ you think you’re going?”

Stiles spins around almost instantaneously, finding Derek standing right behind him, creeping up on him like an undesirable darkness. Stiles backs away until his back hits the door. There’s an amused look on Derek’s face, and Stiles looks at it with horror. Just then, someone else walks into the hallway from a sliding door behind him and she moves to stand beside Derek. Her lab coat and her high heels tell Stiles she’s involved in “medical something.” Stiles eyes them both as they eye him back, but their gaze is more searching. And that’s when Stiles remembers that the woman is the same one who told him where his friend was.

“Huh!” She chuckles behind her elegant fingers. “He really came to this room.”

“Jennifer,” Derek says over his shoulder, but his eyes don’t steer away from Stiles’, “you put him up to this?”

“I thought you looked pretty bored and wanted to give you a little something to play with. I didn’t think he was this gullible.” She laughs now. “And he believed every word I said. That’s a foolish thing to do considering I’m a stranger who introduced herself as Derek’s ‘assistant.’”

Stiles’ heart bleeds.

Her laugh crescendos to a small chuckle, but it’s still sarcastic and Stiles hates it.

Without his consent, one of Stiles’ hands balls into a fist and pierces the air, almost hitting Derek’s cheek. But the latter ducks just in time to dodge the hit. His feet stretch forward to smash with Stiles’ ankles, knocking him off balance. Stiles lands on his side, letting out a winded sound, and quickly rotates his body to do a backflip that Derek admires. He brings his hands up and instigates a ‘come and get me’ gesture, which infuriates Stiles. He trudges on again in a full attack. Derek continues to dodge the blows, ending with a side smack to Stiles’ neck. The latter totters to the ground, but Derek forces him to his feet.

“Finally,” he breathes out, amusement flashing across his features. “A challenge!”

Stiles regains his composure and bunts the taller man’s nose with his head. It works, and Derek eases his grip on his captive. He bends over as blood drips from his nose and he suddenly vibrates with a menacing laugh that has Stiles’ frame shaking. He looks up and doesn’t even bother wiping the blood away. “I won’t go easy on you,” he warns and gives Stiles no time to block before his fist connects with his stomach followed up by another blow to his cheek. Stiles is wondering where such speed came from when a knee connects to his lowered chest, knocking the breath out of him.

Stiles groans and clutches at his chest, coughing a little. Novel fingers sneak between the smooth strands of his hair, and then they clutch, yanking his head backward so their eyes could meet.

Stiles is overcome by anger and hatred; he knows if his friend is really inside this room then the only thing standing between him and saving Scott is this psychopathic killer. So, he glares at him. Derek doesn’t look bothered by the look at all.

“The way you look at me…” he starts, tilting his head to submerge himself in the look. “Your eyes so full of hate and scorn –it’s perfect.” His eyes light up with something definitely evil as he smirks impishly. “You’re turning me on.” At this, he palms his growing cock over the fabric while the other hand yanks harder on Stiles’ hair.

“You sick bastard!” Stiles grits out, the metallic taste inside his mouth is offering a whole range of possibilities that he doesn’t want to face right now. A bloody psycho getting aroused by his pain is enough of a problem. “I’ll kill you myself when I get outta here.”

Derek’s smirk widens. Stiles admits to himself that he doesn’t appreciate that sort of smirk.

“So gallant.” The woman–Jennifer if Stiles still remembers–gushes.

Derek licks his upper lip in a very sensual way. “See why I like my new toy?”

Stiles seizes the other’s distraction, and he forges on, butting his captor’s cheek head-on. Derek falls backward, slamming shoulder-first on the wall behind. Jennifer panics for a second, and she steps out of Stiles’ way. The latter glares at her, silently threatening her and apparently, she heeds his threat as she locks herself against the wall. The moment Stiles turns the key of this room, his head gets caught in something and then it slams against the wooden surface. He slides down with a whine.

“Never do things in halves.” Derek stands atop him, wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve.

Stiles then feels himself getting forced to his feet again by the back of his collar, but with the metallic tang over his tongue and the all over strange sensation, he knows soon he won’t be coherent enough to even fight. He probably has only a couple of hours.

“I’ll leave you to your fun.” Jennifer waves a lackadaisical hand before heading back the way she came. “Don’t break him too soon.”

Derek suddenly pulls Stiles as they trudge to the latter’s ‘room’. Derek then eyes the papers beside the door and keeps his comment to himself because Stiles is struggling and wrestling about. He kicks the door shut and tosses Stiles onto the bed. The latter retreats to the headboard as Derek tugs at his leg. Stiles kicks the other’s hand off but Derek isn’t having any of it as he slaps Stiles across the cheek and, much to his dismay, that’s the only attack that makes his whole body freeze.

Derek then stills and looks Stiles in the eyes. “The more you struggle, the hornier I get.” He confesses, leering like the psycho he is.

“Shut up, shut your trap!” Stiles snarls, hiding his ears with two shaky hands.

Derek’s grip on Stiles’ ankles tightens, pulling him firmly and flipping him before the captive could get a chance to elbow him in the face. Stiles’ breathing grows frantic, and he probes at the rumpled bed sheets. His eyes open impossibly wide. “Let go!” He swipes at his back because Derek has just placed his body weight on him so he wouldn’t turn. “Get off me, you sick fuck!”

“What did I say about that potty mouth of yours, huh?” Derek practically chirps, undoing his belt.

Stiles hears the zipper, and he almost lets fear seize him in its clutch. Derek can’t be thinking of… “I’ll kill you!” He wiggles as the veins pop out along his neckline. “I’ll fucking kill you if you touch me!”

Derek then captures his arms, and although Stiles pulls against him, Derek manages to tie them down with his belt.

“Untie me!” Stiles bellows, angry and scared.

“Now, why would I do that?” Derek sounds entertained, and then hot fingers are sliding onto Stiles’ scalp, kneading with such care. Derek leans into Stiles’ ear. “Do you know why I tied your hands?” He asks in a cold whisper.

“To rape me,” Stiles states in a matter-of-factly. “As expected of a psychopathic killer like you.”

“Incorrect.” Derek hums, his voice vibrates over Stiles’ back. “I’m going to  _fuck_  your brains out.”

Stiles is fleetingly under the effect of the shudder that runs down his spine without a break, but then the words sink in, and he jerks his hands to try to undo the belt. “Don’t you fucking dare, I’ll slit your throat you sick bastard!”

His sweatpants get pulled down robustly, and then he’s being lifted from his middle so that his ass is off the mattress. Stiles’ heart is skyrocketing, and he knows this isn’t going to be a fun trip. Rape isn’t supposed to be passionate, so if he can’t break free, he has to brace himself for it.

“Provided that your cherry’s never been popped, I was planning to be–” he cuts himself off with a low chuckle. “Who am I kidding, I was never gonna be nice.” Saying so, he parts Stiles’ buttocks and Stiles’ face pales, color draining from his face.

Stiles bucks back, using his strength to fight the other off. Only, Derek presses against him like a brick wall and pins him down. He spits on his other hand before he strokes his cock. But once he lines it along Stiles’ anus, the latter panics and starts thrashing, not wanting to admit defeat although all chances seem to be against him.

So he’s going to be raped by this psychopath? He’s never had anal before. He never really had any interest in physical contact with others. As his epilepsy became more frequent, he had to eventually forget about the idea.

Now look at him, pinned down to the bed and about to get raped by a man who relishes any signs of pain. A man who’s enjoyed watching Stiles withering in pain more than once–that pain inducer, Stiles won’t forget its effect as long as he lives.

A hand presses on the side of his face and immobilizes him as Derek pushes in, sliding in all the while, groaning under the feeling of tight heat twitching around his cock.

Stiles wails in agony as bolts of pain spread out from the cock tearing his flesh open. And instead of slowing down at Stiles’ apparent discomfort, Derek gets immersed in the hotness and the tightness welcoming him as he keeps thrusting. At first, the unprepared hole gives him trouble, and Derek finds difficulty, but it’s nothing more force won’t solve.

Stiles gives a garbled shout and the sensation of something liquid seeping down his thighs makes his heart sink.

Derek is enjoying the sound of his meaty balls slapping against Stiles’ ass, but he savors his pained shouts even more.

Stiles’ eyes well up from the pain. He bites his bottom lip and only focuses on breathing to distract from the pain as Derek slams into him hard and fast. It’s brutal, and if it wasn’t for the blood that’s replacing lube, that thing could have done some serious damage by now.

Derek feels bored with Stiles only breathing, so he pounds him. Stiles’ head lifts off the sheets and an indignant and hurt scream leaves his lunges.

“That’s more like it,” Derek rejoices, gripping Stiles’ hair and yanking the head. “Next time won’t be a ‘first’ so make sure to entertain me.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Stiles grits, his tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m fucking  _you_.” Derek sneers, and he grinds against the other, feeling his climax closing in. Stiles keens at the contact that overworks his insides, still trying to undo the ties because the pain is making his head light and dizzy.

 

The nightmare is finally over, and Derek pulls out after shooting his load inside Stiles’ hole that’s twitching now as blood and sperm spill out of the puffy entrance like lava. Stiles falls onto the sheets without a sound, finally finding relief from pain. Derek then yanks the other’s head up again by the hair only to assault his neck, sucking the skin so hard until a bruise blooms.

“You’re mine.”

Stiles registers the words with a fogged memory; every fiber in his body is throbbing. Derek then undoes the belt and leaves the bed. Stiles feels the bed bounce just lightly, and then the door creaks open and closes.

The fluorescent bulbs flicker above him, and Stiles’ fingers twitch. There’s pain in his backside and will probably stay there for more days. Stiles’ entire body is lax and unmoving, even the hard suck on his neck didn’t make him stir.

He’s heard of the rape of males before but never thought he’d be a victim of sexual violence. This whole thing sucks. Things weren’t supposed to be like this; they were supposed to be in the capital, having a blast at the concert. Usopp wasn’t supposed to get blown up, and Frank wasn’t supposed to die like that. And instead of trying to save his childhood friend, he’s spreading his legs for a man who doesn’t have any humanity left in him.

Stiles nuzzles against the sheets but merely to wipe his tears since his hands are too tired to move.

What if Scott’s also being treated violently like this, getting raped and traumatized. Stiles sobs. He’s failed his friends. He’s failed himself.

The only good thing that came out of his dry ass getting fucked royally is that he now has only seconds before he passes out; thus he won’t have to seize.

 

 

The constant buzzing of the overhead fluorescent tubes pulls Stiles out of sweet oblivion. His eyes flutter open, and he realizes nothing has changed from his position from… he doesn’t even know what day it is, if it is night or morning.

 

He’s still lying on his chest, with one hand resting beside his face and the other beside his hip. And as he tries to move, excruciating pain shoots from his backside, he hisses sharply and stills. He knows he’d be stalling this painless state if he doesn’t move, but he feels he has legitimately had enough of pain as it is. He tries to measure it because he can feel substances he doesn’t want to name have dried on his skin and he would like to get his body rid of it. One tiny rotation of his ass and something liquid starts spilling down his inner thighs. The rage would have sent him insane if it wasn’t for his hope flickering for his friends, but how dare Derek. That psycho bastard, how dare he do this?

Stiles’ never felt this humiliated before.

And as he tries to sit up, snaking so he wouldn’t irritate his anus any more than it’s already is. More piercing pain reminds him of the crime that’s taken place inside these ominous walls. His forehead falls onto the bed sheets, and he pants, hissing and gasping as the metallic-smelling liquid keeps on seeping out of his hole. “He tore me; he actually tore me.” It’s a statement spoken in a harrowed tone. “The bastard. I’ll kill him…” He clenches his fists on the sheets. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

The trek from his bed to the bathroom has worn Stiles out. He lands shoulder-first on the door frame and things like feelings of disgust and being a revolting defeatist start to engulf him and remind him of his priorities. Which he’s done nothing to compartmentalize–how he’s going to kill Derek and how he’s going to save his friend… he has done nothing but get humiliated–raped by a man at his age! His head feels faint at the harsh memory and bile spirals on the tip of his stomach. He fights past the feeling because his bottom half is sore and his inner thighs feel dry.

His entire body hurts.

He doesn’t even bother drying his hair as he wobbles back to the bed and falls on it with a deep moan. Sparks of pain shoot through his body, and he folds in on himself, hating the sensation that’s making him nauseous. Although he thoroughly washed his body, every part of it still feels unclean. The worst part is that the pesky bleeding hasn’t stopped. It’s not heavy, but it’s still there as a reminder.

Several bruises are covering his body, and he guesses most of them are from him taking on his opponent in a one-sided fight, where Derek defeated him so easily that it’s laughable. The door to the room suddenly opens. Stiles tries to sit up but every fiber in him becomes taut by bolts of throbbing pain. The pungent perfume reaches Stiles before its owner does. Stiles’ stomach starts to flip-flop, and his eyes starts to widen, horrified.

The Horsebit loafers click-clack, approaching the bed and then finally stopping.

Stiles looks up at the silhouette of the man, his own eyes trembling. And as the other lowers his head, crouching beside the bed, that brittle smirk on his face makes Stiles’ entire body freeze.

“Turn over.”

Stiles forces his eyes shut since he doesn’t want to see the other’s face, it’d only ignite the fighting spirit in him, but he’s too weak right now for that. Besides, he was taken down so easily the previous time. Stiles isn’t sure this time would be any different.

“I can’t examine you otherwise.”

Stiles’ shoulders flinch noticeably hard, but his eyes remain closed. “Don’t touch me.”

“There’s probably some rectal bleeding,” Derek says. “You really don’t want it to get infected.”

“Who caused it in the first place?”

Derek tips his head forward. “Point taken.” He nods. “Also, if you backtalk to me again, I promise there’s going to be more than just an anal fissure.”

Stiles’ eyes open. They tremble when the first thing they see is Derek’s dark eyes so close to his. He gulps and looks away, ignoring those eyes and what possible darkness they hide. He lifts up very slowly, still hissing every time he aggravates the wounds down below.

“It’s alright, don’t lift up.” Derek adjusts his weight on his haunches. “Lie down on your stomach.”

Stiles stills for a pause before he lies down again on his side, and slowly turns over, burying his face into the pillow. He hears shuffling–probably an indication that Derek has changed his posture–and then the edge of the bed tips with the newly added weight. His guess was right.

Derek puts on his gloves and ducks slightly to look at Stiles’ face, but the latter is hiding it with the pillow.

Cold fingers probe Stiles’ inner thighs, and he wants to holler something nasty just to spite the psycho, but he knows that provoking the monster isn’t the right call at this point. He clutches the pillow’s corners and moans every time Derek stretches his butt-cheeks apart.

“Just a tear. No signs of infection.” He reports, and Stiles gladdens at the news because he thought–and judging by the scale of the pain–that something really ugly was happening down there. “There’s a little inflammation though, not that bad.”

“I just need to know if it’s gonna gum up the works.” Stiles huffs, his voice muffled by the pillow he’s still dearly hugging.

Derek leans back, taking his gloves off. “You can turn around now.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at how domineering this guy is. “Do this. Do that,” he grumbles, doing as ordered nonetheless. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

“I kind of think it does.” Derek jokes back. “Anyway, it’s going to feel painful and itchy for the next few days, but nothing chronic so don’t worry.” He says, “I’ll bring you some ointments containing anesthetics; it’ll help reduce the pain. Also, you need rest, don’t move a lot so you won’t aggravate the wound.”

“Thanks, Doc”–Stiles gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes–“I don’t know what I’d have done without your examination.” He scoffs, humorlessly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Derek’s lively face wavers, and that’s when Stiles’ blood runs cold again. After a silent–terrifyingly scary–pause, Derek rises to his feet and hides a hand in his pocket, and the other balling the gloves remains by his hip.

“So why am I still bleeding?” Stiles asks, now looking somewhere over Derek’s shoulders.

“You probably grazed it while you showered,” he says, and when Stiles gives him that dejected ‘had to scrub it clean,’ he adds on a small sigh. “Your anus looks red and puffy, so you shouldn’t touch it. Leave it until the tear mends.” He turns around, heading for the front door. “I’ll be back later to bring in food and the ointments.” He pauses. “By the way, that paper plan was pretty smart, but there’s a little detail you forgot about in your little strategic scheme. I’m smarter.” He says. “I’ve added a padlock to the door, you’re not getting out of here again.”

Stiles takes a lungful and lets it out in the spurt of a prolonged exhale.

 

The next two or three days go by rather quickly with Derek coming in, applying the ointment to Stiles’ anus, bringing him food, and helping him eat. The two say nothing to each other and Stiles does his best to bear with Derek probing his ass because the inflammation is ouch. But there’s this one time where he was lying on his stomach with his hands folded overhead, and Derek was sitting on the edge of the bed, applying the ointment. When he was done, instead of taking his supplies and scramming, he actually lingered there, wordless; until Stiles had enough and reeled his head towards the man only to see something vague swirling in his eyes. It got him worked up, and he knew immediately that the man was plotting something that wasn’t anything good.

Derek immobilized Stiles by his shoulder blades and ignored the choosiest swear words Stiles kept throwing at him as he ducked into his neck and sank his teeth into the flesh until Stiles mewled wantonly. Derek didn’t pull back right away. He placed more of his weight on Stiles’ back and pressed his teeth deeper, groaning as Stiles whimpered at the violent ministration. Now, growing a bulge as Stiles tilted his head to allow him more space.

He pulled back just as suddenly and went about his business just like that, leaving Stiles to deal alone with the throbbing of the bloody bruise.

Until the following day Stiles believes it marks the U-turn of his life.

 

He wakes up startled from a traumatizing dream involving Usopp along with all the friends who were supposed to still be alive and having the time of their lives in the capital. They’d risen from a puddle of blood with their indexes pointed at him.

He scrubs a trembling hand over his eyes, willing the images to disappear. He keeps chasing after air, making his chest, that is already clammy with abundant sweat, go up and down heavily.

Suddenly, there’s a new-found feeling surging within him, something telling him that a greater power is rooting for him so he can go for it, save himself. The rectal pain has long since ebbed to a faint ache, and he’s glad he bounced back pretty fast. But that’s something he should put to use. He tears off the needle of the IV bag and holds on to it because his life–and probably his friends’ too–depends on it.

As if listening in on his inner thoughts, the keys to the padlock clank and the door creaks open. A very proud Derek saunters in, chest puffed out and hands in pockets. Stiles readies himself for the non-planned calamity.

Once Derek nears the bed, Stiles bolts forward. Derek’s reflex is as fast as Stiles expected. He latches onto him before he could scurry past him. Stiles elbows his side, and although Derek grunts at the contact, he doesn’t let go of him. He pulls Stiles by the hair and throws him onto the bed, standing over him as the bed bounces under the brunt of Stiles’ weight.

“You’re provoking me on purpose,” he grits out, now surging downward to lock his hands around Stiles’ neck. “Do you enjoy this? Do you want me to hurt you more?”

Stiles looks up at the fuming eyes and fleetingly regrets his earlier decision; but as he fights to breathe, Derek quirks a smirk that soon crescendos to an evil laugh. “This is great!” he gushes, pressing his fingers more on Stiles’ windpipe as the latter flails his arms and legs, trying to get away from his claws. “I can hurt you as much as you want.”

Stiles brings the needle then and swipes it at Derek’s face, leaving a long trail of blood from his cheekbone to his jawline. Derek’s smirk falls, and he slowly lets go of Stiles but keeps on straddling him anyway. He touches the newly-made cut. He inspects his fingers and they’re smeared with blood. He snorts, but it’s humorless. “You cut me!” He looks astounded by the revelation. “You actually cut me!”

Stiles gives a self-satisfied smirk. “Serves you right, you sick son of a bitch.”

Derek tosses his head to the back and lets out a throaty maniacal laugh; Stiles is horrified by it as he stills completely. He’s just cut the bastard’s face. There’s no accounting for what’s going to follow. He did guess a slap, a kick or a punch that would send stars over his head, but he never expected this.

The laugh diminuendos to a chuckle eventually as he brings his eyes on Stiles’ trembling ones. He tilts his head dangerously and something wicked flashes across his face as he smirks evilly. “My turn.”

Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to let the newsflash sink in before he gets pulled up by the collar and then punched on one side of his face: again, and again, and again. Stiles is lying on his back with both arms over his head, his nose and lips nothing but a pond of blood. His eyes roll under his lids, but nothing registers other than the dull pain all over his head. He feels his body getting dragged, but he is too disoriented to focus on what’s being done to him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

 

Was he too hasty by attempting to flee again?

He knew he was no match for Derek but it’s not like his fighting skills are lacking. He frankly thought he could take on the man this time that he wasn’t in too much pain.

But boy was he wrong.

The wallops to his head have finally kicked in, and Stiles expects a full-blown seizure in exactly a few minutes from now. If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to seize in front of a man who would most likely jerk off at the sight than help him through it. –loud rattling brings his focus back together, and he can make out the green enamel and the fluorescent lights. He is then instantaneously tossed to the ground.

Derek stands atop him, looking at him with blank eyes that show no glint, no compassion.

Just a cold glare that makes Stiles wonders about his luck… that he was caught by someone –something like this.

The tremors traveling up-and-down his scrawny body are the first indication that his seizure is going to hit soon on full blast. He switches to sleep on his side, but Derek’s leg nudges his chest and forces him on his back again. Stiles eventually lets him have it his way because there is no way around the fact that he will end up with a concussion, a tennis ball sized bump, and a blistering migraine.

He never takes his eyes away from Derek’s though.

He knows something is messed up about that. First, he let Derek bite his neck, and fuck if he weren’t so much of a coward he’d have admitted that he, in fact, had let Derek bite him merely because he enjoyed it. Damn it, he really enjoyed it, and that was the most mind-boggling and scary thing about it. Bit by bit, he was enjoying the things Derek would do to him now and then.

He knows Derek is sedulously waiting for when Stiles will seize so he can feast his eyes and please himself, but something within Stiles, something… dark, he thinks, something that’s festered just recently is actually looking forward to this. Derek can’t get enough stimulation and pleasure from cutting into the flesh alone anymore, and Stiles’ pain is basically the only thing that gives this man a reason to go to these lengths, punish and hurt. Stiles wants to laugh out loud, but his entire body is convulsing so he can’t.

He fears what might become of him.

Derek is not human, there is no humanity left in this creature; but what if whatever that is, it’s contagious?

No, no, no…  
Stiles isn’t a cold-blooded killer. Stiles doesn’t find pleasure in people’s pain. He is nothing like Derek.

He enjoyed the bite because his body is weak to pleasure induced pain, a normal body reaction.

His pupils sink under his lids, and he loses the sense of time and place as his body stiffens and starts seizing.

  
Stiles awakes suddenly, wheezing and groaning. It’s dark, pitch black. He hears clanging and clinking, chains maybe. He tries to move his hands to assist the damage done to his face, but the movement is impeded when something pulls at his wrists. The haziness on his focus finally dissipates, and Stiles realizes he’s on his knees. His arms parted overhead.

So, wait a damn second, just what exactly happened here?

Stiles remembers being beaten to a pulp but beyond that… No, he did seize, did he not? And it most likely wasn’t a tonic-clonic judging by the level of his nausea and headache. But just before that, didn’t Derek take him to another room –lab is actually more like it? He remembers the glossy enamel floor and the white walls, it –everything was swirling inside his head, so he’s not sure. Besides, he’s still a little ‘punchy’ from being incapacitated so maybe he’s getting ahead of himself here.  
He tugs his hands to him but the restraints on his wrists, metal, he can tell, they’re pulling back against him. He can feel gritty dust scratching his toes, so he guesses the floor is overlaid with it because it feels thick.

Suddenly, the room is flooded with blinding light, and Stiles winces under its brilliance, hiding his pupils under his lids. He slowly opens then again to survey his new surroundings.

It’s a square, white-walled, green enamel-floored room, roughly twenty feet across from where he’s perched. He checks his wrists that are currently chained to two metal hooks inserted fifteen feet up to the ceiling, each on an opposite corner so that his arms are spread open over his head. There are more hooks on the wall and spider webs on the sloped corners. There’s a red settee before him. Towards the far corner of the room, there’s a faucet and a drain grid.

Echoing whistling, rhythmic enough to sound eerie, garners Stiles’ attention as he reels his head to the source.

The shiny loafers, the lab coat, and the puffed-out chest… Stiles peers at the approaching man through bleary eyes. The impassive eyes, the cold smirk and the evil countenance of the evil man, Hale Derek, finally stands before Stiles.

“Sleeping beauty is finally up,” Derek says in that dark voice of his that, much to Stiles’ chagrin, echoes with such vividness. “’Was wondering if I had to kiss you to break the spell.”

Stiles wets the inside of his mouth that’s too dry for his liking. “What” –another swallow and an eye roll– “Where am I? What is this place?”

Derek crouches down to Stiles’ eye level, gives a small sigh before looking around at the room. “This” –he motions at their surroundings and looks back at Stiles– “is where you’re gonna live from now on.”

A deep scowl takes over Stiles’ face. Something about that newly-made scar on Derek’s face soothes his festering anger. He’s done well by scarring this man’s face.

“Used to be my personal lab but then I had them renovate the damn place,” he says, now lifting his feet and dusting off his knees. “Haven’t used it in a while, but then you’re always the exception to the rule.”

Stiles yanks the chains but they don’t give. Of course, they don’t. “So, what now?” He scoffs, clears his stuffy throat and expectorates blood on the enamel. “We’re gonna continue to play this game, kinda redundant, don’t you think?”

Derek eyes everything Stiles does, his eyes narrowing searchingly for a second before he shrugs slightly. “Yea, I guess we are.” He says, “Until I’m bored.”

Stiles clenches his fists. “Look, man” he starts, trying a different approach this time because, obviously, violence would only cause more violence. “I don’t care if you’re a psycho who likes hearing himself talk and I don’t even care if you want to keep me here, locked up for your own entertainment, banzai for the catch.”

Derek is listening intently.

“Just,” he gulps audibly. “Please, just let my friend go.”

“Now,” Derek swings his index threateningly. “I’m impervious to what you say, but that’s such a terrific idea.”

Stiles’ face lightens up.

“But” –He says and Stiles scowls again– “I’m opinionated and dogmatic, according to you that is, right?” He glares heatedly at Stiles now. “So I’m probably the last one you want to negotiate with.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Stiles demures. “You’re tampering with my words!”

“I beg your pardon?” Derek looks deceptively shocked. “I fed you, treated your wounds, and looked after you” he ends up barking by the last sentence, now pointing his index at his scarred face. “And this is how you repay me?”

When Stiles’ lips twitch into a tiny triumphant smirk, Derek grips his hair, yanks his head backward until Stiles can’t help, but groan. Their eyes meet and Derek’s silhouette makes him look more frightening than he already is. “Were you not listening?” he clenches harder. He tsks and suddenly frees Stiles’ hair, “Look what you’ve done,” he eyes the same hand he assaulted Stiles’ hair with. “You’ve gotten blood on me.”

Stiles furrows deeply at the man. He can say something really smartass-y right now, but he’s not ready for the consequences yet.

Derek takes out a burgundy handkerchief, and Stiles fights against picking on Derek’s girly taste. The psycho wipes his hands and places the handkerchief in the pocket of his lab coat, “I guess it’s to be expected,” he says, “I spoil you too much.”

Stiles scoffs humorlessly to that.

“That’s why,” his wicked eyes fall on Stiles’ at this. “I’ve made new rules.”

Stiles blinks to clear his vision.

“Rule number one,” he starts, “Hygiene.” He says, now undoing one of the binds on Stiles’ wrists. “You keep yourself clean,” he orders. “Keep your new home clean.”

Stiles’ hand flops to his thigh weightless. As Derek unchains the other hand, Stiles feels that instinctive need to flee this place again and he tries to suppress it with all the power he has left. Derek walks to the left side and comes with a metal bucket and a crummy looking sponge, which Stiles didn’t notice before. He tosses them at his captive’s knees until they clang, and then he thrusts his hands into his pockets.

“You’re joking, right?” Stiles snorts at the absurdity of the situation.

Derek eyes him impassively, “I want the place spotless.”

Okay, so let Stiles get this straight. He’s spent God knew how long sedated, in pain and raped in that room, and now that he finally changed airs –not that it’s five stars with a view– but Derek is suddenly asking him to vacuum?

Derek gives that impatient sigh, now crouching before Stiles. “Look, you can’t keep disobeying me. If I tell you to do something, you do it, okay?” saying so, he brings his fingers and brushes Stiles’ recent hickey, barely ghosting over the bruised skin. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Stiles–” He suddenly snorts on a snicker. “Actually I do,”

Stiles recoils slightly from the fingers, terror seizing him.

“But you know, don’t speed things up.” Derek brings his hands back to his pockets as he levers up to his feet. “Follow the rules, is all I’m saying.” He puffs out his muscled chest. “But be a smartass again, and your friend buys the farm.”

At the mention of his friend, Stiles loses all his composure. “Why can’t I see him?” he demands. “You’ve promising me things, but you don’t keep your word either.” He says, “You’ve had your fun with me man. Just let us go already. We won’t rat on you. We’ll forget everything happened and never speak of this to a soul, huh, what’ ya think?”

Derek’s lips twitch and furl, but quickly loosen. His face is set in hard lines as he gives the other a pointed stare.

“I don’t think I want to hear you talk anymore Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth is suddenly cupped by one of Derek’s palms. He fumbles through his pockets for something; Stiles makes sure he goes down fighting as he squirms and scratches the other. Derek's hand finally comes out with a leather mouth gag, and he doesn’t waste any second as he wraps it around Stiles’ face and thrusts the stuffy part into his injured mouth. The latter shakes his head to stop Derek from clipping the damn suffocating gag, but Derek tightens the grip of the straps and does the buckle. He totters to the back after the effort and squares his shoulder, now eying his handiwork.

Stiles is still kneeling on the floor. His hands probing the buckle in the back of his head and his eyes are glaring up at his captor.

“I’ll take it off when you’ve learned how to show some respect.” he starts. “You see, people are too engrossed, and you’re no different. A lot of things you take for granted are actually privileges.” He says, “And for you to learn that, you have to follow the rules. The more rules you follow, the better you are, the better you are, the more privileges you earn.”

Stiles takes in a shaky breath and lets his hands fall beside his hips.

“Plain and simple.” Derek comments on a faint shrug, “Nothing too complicated, right?”

Stiles lowers his gaze. He stares wide-eyed somewhere over his lap, and Derek has to crook his head to look at Stiles’ face. “Rules, Stiles.” He sings-songs, “remember what rule number one was?”

Stiles is doing a mental check on the possible odds that might follow with him taking the gag off and hitting Derek’s head with the metal bucket. He knows the plan might work, and he might actually succeed at taking the other down, but he has no recollection of his seizure, and Derek hasn’t mentioned anything about anticonvulsant. So, how is he going to be sure it’s going to go according to plan? He might seize in the next few minutes, and he will have no power to make it stop.  
Derek scratches his nape and breathes out of his nose. “Rule number one, J, come on.”

Stiles can suddenly hear a slight degree of impatience creeping in the other’s voice, so he snaps out of his thoughts and tries to remember what rule number one was. He eyes the bucket and the sponge, and suddenly it sinks in.

Hygiene

He slowly reaches for the bucket and the sponge, grips it in his lean hand and stares up at Derek who chuckles softly. He ignores the man who, by the looks of it, is having so much fun, and he tries to stand up on his two shaky legs. He manages a couple of steps before he falls, shoulder-first, on the wall. Thankfully, the spigot is just a couple of meters ahead so he rejoices because, true, he didn’t except this before, but he is so disoriented and queasy.

He fills up the bucket to the half and returns to where Derek is standing.

“A quick learner, aren’t you?”

Stiles looks irritably at him before he drops to his knees, feeling the cold floor. Derek shows some audacity by walking out of his way to sit on the settee, arms outstretched on the headrest and legs crossing on one another. Stiles dips the sponge into the cold water. He wrings it out and starts mopping the blood off the floor.

Derek watches intently as the blood on the floor dilutes under Stiles’ throughout cleansing. His dark eyes follow the movement, and when Stiles glances swiftly at him, there’s no particular emotion on that empty face. Their eyes meet on the fly, making Stiles’ entire body shudder. He quickly looks at the area he’s scrubbing, and he licks his lips, ready to exchange a few words with this monster because the boredom is going to drive him insane faster than the psycho.

He unbuckles the straps and holds on to the mouth gag, just in case Derek flips. “So what’s your deal?” Stiles starts, one shoulder taut because he’s leaning on it and the other is rocking back and forth as he scrubs the floor with the sponge, the damn blood stains aren’t going away. “’Seems like you have all the time in the world since you’re spending most of your time in than you do out.”

Derek is silent for the next few seconds before he sags back on the headrest with a little sigh. He props his elbow on the armrest and leans on his knuckles, “I remember saying I didn’t like to hear you talk anymore.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Any of it sinking in?”

“Humor me.” Stiles grits out.

“Tell me,” he starts, “Did you like it when I raped you?”

Stiles stills, and he can tell his eyes are widening with shock.

“I didn’t ask you to stop.” Derek’s reminder is spoken in a soft tone, but Stiles’ stomach does a vigorous somersault at its brunt. When he resumes the scrubbing, Derek continues, “So, did you like it?”

Stiles stifles in his anger, but it’s no use when his fingers are getting colder and number, irritating him some more. “Nobody enjoys getting fucked in the ass, especially on the dry.”

“So your argument is,” Derek drawls, “If it weren’t on the dry, you’d have enjoyed it?” he scoffs, “that’s plausible.”

Stiles throws the sponge into the bucket until water droplets bounce everywhere. He turns around, still squatting on the floor. His glare hardens, and his jaw clenches. “You seem like you’ve made quite the habit of tampering with everything I say,” He breathes out, accusingly. “I didn’t like it; I didn’t like you shoving your dick up my ass. I didn’t like it on the dry, but I won’t necessary like it on a lube either.” He says, “It was disgusting and painful,” the burning look in his eyes doesn’t waver. “I’ll kill you if you lay your hands on me again.”

Derek’s poker-face breaks into a predatory, cold and chilling smirk. And Stiles isn’t that slow, he knows he’s just played into Derek’s hands, and although he’d rather take all of it back, he knows he can’t. And Derek has just gotten his hands on valuable information. Inside Derek’s brain, probably any talk which doesn’t involve pain gets sieved out, and the only thing repeating inside his head is ‘it was painful.’

He regrets opening his mouth and yapping; he regrets it pretty fucking bad.

“Put the gag back on.” He orders, his voice gentle.

Gentle means trouble is coming; Stiles can read him loud and clear now, most of his sick traits anyways. And he knows better than to disobey; he’s done enough by taking the gag off and spilling his heart to any old Joe blow enough to provoke his abductor. He puts the gag back on and does the buckle, but since Derek is keeping his eyes on him, he tightens the straps enough to leave a mark. He hates the feeling of his mouth being stuffed with leather, but he bears with it so long his head isn’t getting bashed with anything.

Derek puts the chains back on each of Stiles’ wrists; he yanks them to see if they give, they don’t. He eyes the floor and the areas Stiles washed, and then he beams, “that’s a good boy.” And just as Stiles’ body collapses with relief, Derek’s loafer shoots forward and collides with his chest, knocking the breath out of him. Stiles whimpers and doubles over, feeling Derek’s hand ruffling his hair. The fucker, he’s pushing his luck here. The pain feels like a fire eating gasoline as his chest burns. He wheezes to tell the damage apart, bruised ribs, nothing broken. But that’s uncalled for. Isn’t Derek pleased with his work or what, exactly?

“If you keep me waiting so fucking long again,” Derek starts, still beaming manically. “I’ll have you clean the entire room with your tongue.” Saying so, he walks to the door, opens it, and leaves.

The lights go off again, and Stiles is left to nurse his new injury.

It’s an astonishing pain that drags Stiles right out of his harmless dream. He doesn’t want to wake up, at least for now. He wants to go back to those trivial chitchats with his family around the dinner table, the hot soup, and the warm house. But he knows he can’t.

He blinks a few times; the unrelenting darkness proves him it’s not a choice of his. It’s something forced on him, just like how many other things became shackles on him as of late. His shoulders are sore, his ribs too, he is cold, hungry, and his mouth is gagged. He knows his body can only handle so much. It’s a race against time as of now before his body shuts down on itself, not wanting any of this anymore. Not the pain, not the helpless feeling and certainly not the upheaval which rises every time Derek is around.

First things first though, he has to assist the recent damage done to his ribs. He’d have been too hasty with his examination before. He is not coughing up blood. Stiles sighs because it’s a good sign since the threat of a punctured lung seems to have been avoided. He takes a deep breath but feels stinging pain below his ribcage, so it’s probably just a bruise. A nasty one at that but he’ll manage.

The lights stream through the morbid dread of darkness, blinding Stiles with the resultant radiance. He lowers his head and slowly opens his eyes, helping them adapt to the surge of light. The door rattles open, and Derek walks in, wearing a brown knee-length coat over a dress shirt. There’s something like a bowl in his hand, and that haughty smirk hasn’t worn off. He stands motionless once he reaches Stiles, only eying him fixedly.

“Hungry, Stiles?”

Said male looks at his captor through slanted eyes before he looks away, nauseated at the sight of those evil eyes.

“Ignoring me?”

Stiles winces inwardly because nothing good ever happens after Derek uses that questioning tone.

Derek crouches beside Stiles. He puts the bowl down and unclips the gag. Stiles feels immense relief that his jaw isn’t parted anymore, drool spills down his jaw but he’s been through worse. He can handle this.

“Let’s try again,” Derek says in his deep voice, “You hungry?”

Stiles’ eyes flick towards the contents of the bowl, a meager quantity of fried rice. His stomach growls at the smell, giving him away. Stiles finds no other option but to admit the facts because he’s not hungry, he’s starving, any food will do. He nods after his eyes glance back at Derek’s.

The latter gives a brittle smirk, “Asked you a question, J.” He reminds, “It’s rude not to answer.”

Stiles would elbow the bastard in the eye if he could. He knows there’s no way around the fact that he has to utter words, not of spite, but to keep the monster entertained. “Yes.”

Derek scoff. “Now”, he starts. “Is that any way to ask for food?”

Stiles bears with it for the sake of food, “I’m hungry.” He says through gritted teeth. “Give me food.”

Derek shakes his head, feigning disappointment, “I guess you don’t want it after all.” He levers up to his feet and makes to leave. Stiles reaches for him with his body until the chains jingle.

“Wait!” He calls out, and when Derek pauses mid-stride and turns around, that fucking expectant look on his face making him look like a child. Stiles gulps his anger and stares upon the enamel floor, “Please…”

Derek cocks his head. “What was that?”

Stiles clenches his fists, “I’m really hungry. Can I eat the rice, please?”

Derek plunges his hands into his pockets and lets out a rather contented sigh, “That’s another thing you took for granted.” He says, “Which reminds me of the second rule.”

Stiles hardens his glare at the man.

“Gratitude.” He says with a creepy smile. “You gotta show some gratitude for the things I do for you.”

Stiles lets out an abrupt chuckle, “Does that mean I should thank you for hurting me as well?” he scoffs, “For killing my friends?”

Derek only keeps that creepy smile on and then he leaves altogether. Stiles’ eyes are fixated on the door, wondering if Derek leaving without a word is a good thing or not, or if he’s just sentenced his friend and himself to certain death. The lights don’t go out this time, and when nothing else happens. Stiles finally musters the courage to look away from the door and onto the bowl of rice before him. His face is slowly coated crimson with humiliation, he even went and begged.

 

Some undetermined time later, the door opens again, and Derek walks in, still smiling creepily. Stiles examines the man’s hands, if they’re holding something and he feels slight relief when he finds nothing. Derek then stops when he reaches the settee his eyes peering down at his captive.

“You’ve got too much damn time on your hands,” Stiles glances at the man after wetting his lips. “Doc.”

Derek ducks his head with a tiny side smile on his lips, he lifts the bowl and after he locks eyes with Stiles. He spills the contents of the bowl onto the enamel.  
“Screwing with my mind, is that it?” Stiles huffs, his irises momentarily hiding under his lids.

“No,” Derek denies, “Screwing with your stomach.”

Stiles gulps. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Am I?” Derek dares with false curiosity. “Last I checked, humans can’t go on without food, you might still act stubborn, say, ten days from now?” he says, “but what about two weeks from now? Three?”

Stiles gives an arrogant chuckle, “And you honestly think I’d stay here for that long?”

“You think you can check out?” Derek scoffs, his eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “Well, I’d like to see you try.”

Stiles’ features draw into a scowl. “I’m going home,” he says, defiantly. “Right after I slit your throat.”

Derek furrows. “But what to do,” he says. “I already decided to inflict unimaginable pain on you before you turn back and bite.”

Stiles’ eyes widen at the news.

“It’s probably why you’ll need that food,” he says, flippantly, “to keep in shape.”

“Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Stiles grits his teeth because he currently has no comebacks for that. He’s been promising to finish the man off for a while now, but Derek still managed to have his fun with him in his own sick, twisted way.

Derek gives a conceited hum, “That’s what I thought.”

There’s silence for a moment -the silence before a storm. Stiles doesn’t want to dive into reading the little twitches in the nuances of Derek’s face, trying to gauge up what possible mood he’d be wallowing in, but the silence is almost eerie for Stiles to be chilling back. Derek then, and very slowly, slides his hand into the chest pocket of his coat, and it comes out holding a syringe. Stiles’ heart drops to his stomach.

“You remember your old pal, Stiles?”

Said male’s fists clench impossibly hard. It can’t be, it just can’t. He starts pulling against the chains, wanting to flee away at any cost because any torture is better than the pain inducer. “No” he growls crossly, “No!”

Derek pets Stiles’ head, kneading through the tousled strands. “Easy” he breathes out, now pulling Stiles’ head to his chest, burying his face into the crook of his neck. “Easy.”

Stiles squirms more, his panting growing frantic, “No, please, not that.” His voice cracks, “Derek.”

The latter shushes him with the gentleness of a mother, “You left me no choice, Stiles.” He whispers on the crown of said man’s head. “I have to do this, don’t fight it,” he commands, his voice shockingly soothing. “Don’t make me hurt you more.”

Stiles’ heart is erratic at this rate, waging an impending full-fledged hyperventilation, “No one’s making you do anything.” Stiles practically wails, “Derek, please… please, anything but this.”

Silence sips in for a second before any of them speaks again.

“Anything?” Derek asks, the smirk he’s wearing coming through in his voice.

Stiles cringes, if he gives in this one time, everything he’s worked for to maintain his pride will keel over and crumble down, but he doesn’t want another shot of that pain inducer. He doesn’t want to feel that ever again, but he doesn’t want to yield to this heartless monster for a man either.

“Stiles?” Derek urges. His deep voice and savory scent making Stiles fleetingly undecided, but he knows he has only fragments of a second to savor the fleeting sense of sanctuary before Derek spurts out his fangs at him and snatch whatever this is from right under him. He nods, it’s slow, tentative and he hates himself for this.

Derek chuckles darkly on Stiles’ hair; the sound is reverberating through Stiles with such animosity, ridiculing him for all the misfortunes he’s just signed up for with his full awareness. “But, Stiles” Derek starts, “Why’d you assume I’d care what you want?”

Stiles wrenches himself from the impermanent shelter, his eyes horrified.

Derek’s eyes are a pair of dead pupils that show blatant impassiveness. The syringe penetrates Stiles’ neck and he feels its nib pricking him, he hisses and repels himself backward.

“You…” He groans, “You sick bastard…”

"So I've been told." Derek says with a grin, his hand coming up to run softly through Stiles’ hair.

The feeling is anyway different from what he experienced before. This almost feels like a cold numbness wiggling its way throughout his body.

And bit by bit, darkness engulfs him whole.

 

***

 

Stiles awakes at the sensation of something cold cricking his nipples. He lets out a mewl through his gagged mouth before he can just whose novel hand is probing him. But recent events have entrenched only one possibility for that, so before even opening his eyes, he knows it’s Hale Derek, plotting for something bizarre again.

  
“’Back from the land of the dead?”

  
At this, Stiles’ heavy lids part open, still a slit though. His pupils roam unfocused before they settle on the man sitting on the settee as though it’s his legitimate throne, eying Stiles’ body with intense hanger. The latter’s entire body stiffens as a shudder runs through him.

  
“You’ve been out of it for a couple of days now,” he says, “I was starting to worry.”

  
Leave it to the gag to keep him from coming up with a good comeback for that.

  
“As you can see,” Derek chats on, “I’ve taken the initiative to do something for you because you were a good boy, you cleaned the floor,” he says, “Good boys deserve a treat.”

  
Stiles frowns for an explanation.

  
“Although it’s a little imposing on your privacy, I’ve cleaned you up, thoroughly,” he enunciates it for emphasis, “Shaved your ugly stubble as well.” He reports, “You won’t be needing clothes from now on, I got rid of them.”

  
Stiles eyes himself, and he’s shocked to see not only is he naked, but there’s some sort of a silver collar on his neck that is connected to a chain. The chain parts halfway and each end is clipped to his nipples with a clamp. It’s probably what caused the cricking feeling earlier.

  
Derek twines his fingers together and adopts that smoky tone of voice again, “Remember what you said before I sedated you?”

  
Stiles can’t exactly answer even if he wanted to because there’s a gag in his mouth.

  
“Anything,” Derek sing-songs, “You said anything was better, thus, you’ve given me your total permission to do anything I want with you –not that I needed it, but it helps you feel like this is consensual, so to speak.” He says, “I’m willing to forgive all your misbehaviors, give you a second chance, more or less, all you need to do is kneel and part your legs shoulder length.”

  
Stiles’ eyes widen at that.

  
“Or,” Derek lifts an index, “I can resort to violence again, what with me using my trump card of harming your friend and we both know I’ll get what I want with that, it’s easier, but not really that fun.”

  
Just what is he trying to accomplish with such a senseless argument, really?  
Stiles doesn’t understand the need for the nipple clamps. Derek has that sadistic streak, but he never thought it’d be easily labeled, what with Derek resorting to slave collars and –wait a damn second. Does this make Stiles a slave? Or better yet, does Derek think that he can enslave Stiles, and the BDSM toys would give it a realistic meaning?

  
“I don’t really need words,” Derek speaks again, “Just part your knees if you aren’t apt for more violence, personally, I just want to have a little fun for now. I’ve had a pretty crappy day and raping you sounds like it’d sate my anger.”

  
He’s angry?

  
Stiles has thought that Derek’s anger came in the spurts of unrelenting violence. Never once did he stop to think that the violent Derek is actually Derek in a merry mood. This new version of Derek tells him that the man is not just angry, he is livid. And if Stiles lets this man head to his friend’s, Scott might as well end up dead, gorily so, and Derek wouldn’t even bat an eye.  
He’s never thought it’d come to this; actually, he kind of did before he was even raped, but living it like this it sort of changes his entire point of view. Being stripped of his pride and dignity like this, literally, it brings about a whole sensation, that of hopelessness and misery. To have a man –a psycho, no less–  strip you down and order you around as though you’re his whore. The anger swirling down Stiles’ stomach is about to erupt. He knows that as long as Derek has that trump card up his sleeve, he won’t be able even to put up a fight. No, maybe, wallowing in this bottomless hatred will ignite that fire for revenge all over again and he won’t crumble under the despair.

  
And as Derek sits there, legs crossed with his cheek propped on a hand’s knuckles, Stiles demurs, but eventually and very slowly parts his knees. The sickening clanking of chains adhered to the hooks is making him feel revolted. His eyes wander about the lab before settling back on Derek’s nocuous eyes that are eating him up without shame. He suddenly uncrosses his long legs and levers up to his feet. Stiles, wide-eyed and horror-stricken, he stares at the other as he approaches him, heavy footfalls echo in the vacant room. He comes to a halt when he’s a feather-length away, his hip level to Stiles’ face. The latter looks up, feeling the metal collar tickling his nape when he does, but he ignores it in favor of being vigilant or pretending to be, anyway.

  
Derek only stands there, wordless. Suddenly, his right hand comes up, ghosts over Stiles’ cheek. His cold fingertips that make him shudder but not completely recoil.  
“Such luscious lips, even if scarred” –he thumps said lips slightly– “Feline eyes” –ghosts both thumps now over said eyes, and the mole under the corner of Stiles’ eye– “porcelain skin.” He almost moans at the feeling of smooth skin under his touch.

  
Stiles is gradually furrowing, having someone as psychotic as Derek boss you around wasn’t much of a blow to his nuts, but he has to listen to the same twisted man admiring his good body traits and even cop a feel. He gasps abruptly when fingers knead through his recently washed hair.

  
“Our relationship is growing rather stagnant, wouldn’t you say?” Derek asks in undertone.

  
Relationship?

  
Derek calls this a ‘relationship’?

  
Stiles wants to laugh his head off at the term, mock Derek for his poor interpretation, even the ‘be-my-toy’ script is far better than labeling this as something that only normal people should have.

  
“I reckon you feel the same,” Derek notes out, conversationally. His right hand now working the fingers into Stiles’ already gagged mouth. As the latter squirms, hating the added stuffing making it difficult to breathe, Derek speaks on, “You’ve been tucked away into your new home, kept to nurse your craving for normalcy, for a human touch.”  
Stiles’ squirming stops and he looks up, meeting Derek’s wicked eyes that are… they are looking back at him, but there’s something within, something utterly new that should not be there.

  
There is kindness.

  
“I’m not raving to win you over by the way,” he says, “I’ve concluded you have the potential to be entertaining, that’s all.”  
Derek isn’t making any sense now, Stiles concludes.

  
There’s something different today, something that can have disastrous consequences. He thinks something that has the ability to ruin his resolve.

  
Derek uses his other unoccupied hand to unclip the gag, pull it and toss it aside until copious saliva splatter across the area on the floor it fell. Drool spills down Stiles’ jaw as he regains relief from having something as annoying as a gag stuffed into his mouth for hours.

  
He chuckles when he feels fingers still lingering in his hair, “Now, even Shakespeare would bow to that,” he smirks at the other, “I almost dropped a tear.”

  
Those fingers in his hair massage the scalp sensually, grazing the ear tips and the head crown, pulling and pressing, just like a lover’s kiss, they suddenly stop. “Those fatuous comments of yours will be the death of you someday.”

  
“And when’s that?” Stiles dares. Deep within, he knows grating on Derek’s nerves, especially when he is ‘angry’, is basically spoiling for a disaster, but it’s like a pull that you can’t resist no matter what. Derek isn’t as busy as to deny him that.

  
“How about we put that potty mouth of yours to use?” Derek hums, impatience creeping into his voice, “Open your mouth.”

  
“As inviting as it sounds,” Stiles begins, “But no thanks, I’ll decline the offer.”

  
Loud ringing goes off in Stiles’ left ear, followed by a stinging pain in his cheek, and he soon realizes he’s just been slapped.

  
“You still think you get to downturn an order?” Derek huffs, his thick brows meeting across his marred forehead, “Open your mouth.”

  
Stiles hardens his glare as though it’d daunt Derek into releasing him along with his friends, as though it’d define how odious this treatment is.

  
Derek lifts his hand again and it comes down fast, and hard, landing on Stiles’ cheek again. The latter’s head is jerked, looking elsewhere. “Don’t make me repeat myself again, Stiles.” He threatens, looking intimidating enough to actually scare an unmoving sculpture.

  
“You’ve had a crappy day at work,” Stiles’ voice is low, anger evident in it, “So what, you just come in here to fuck up mine?” He chides, eyes glaring fumingly at the other now. “Well, here’s a newsflash for you bud,” he snorts, “You and your orders can suck my dick.”

  
“Actually,” Derek brightens up with a creepy smirk, “You are.” Saying so, he unzips his fly and his cock springs free, hard and veiny. Stiles did miss the bulge but merely because he was more frightened by evil eyes making him feel uncanny about everything. “If you bite it, or as much as graze it with your teeth,” Derek warns. “I’ll head to the room at the end of the hall and shoot your friend right in the pelvis, won’t even look back as I leave him there as he is slowly dying such a painful death.”

  
Stiles quickly parts his lips open, not wanting to hear any threats concerning his friend. Besides, if a blowjob is all this sick bastard wants, then so be it. Stiles is only doing this to keep his friend safe, he isn’t doing this because Derek ordered him to. This is something that gifts him with more self-respect; he’d lost it in him before, hated being reduced to a means of sexual frustration relief. But he thinks he is doing quite alright by taking on this man’s demand to save Scott.

  
Derek, completely oblivious to the anger rifling through his captive, he plunges his cock into the open mouth, sighing at the welcoming heat.

  
Stiles tries to run from this by closing his eyes so tightly that rainbow colors explode in his vision. So, because this is forced on him, Stiles promises to act just like it, keep his lips parted and bear with it until Derek’s had enough. But, apparently, the man has no plan of doing this one-sidedly. As he thrusts into the hot, wet mouth, he tugs at the nipple clamps, making Stiles mewl again at the cricking pull. The vibrating down his throat makes Derek groan. Well, one thing for sure, Stiles understands the need for the nipple clamps now.  
Derek’s hands clutch at Stiles’ golden hair from both sides, tugging at it as he thrusts into Stiles’ mouth like a dog humping a couch. Stiles feels like death in the woods by a maniac bowman would have been a lot more merciful than this. At least he would end up dead, not raped from the upper end.

  
Gosh, he can’t breathe. He feels Derek’s dick reaching all the way to his throat, plugging it and keeping air from passing through. And the harder he yanks the chains, the more miserable he feels. Derek keeps poking at the nipple clamps, groaning every time Stiles moans because the inside vibration tickles the crown of his cock.

  
Stiles feels hot liquid touching the back of his tongue, he knows what it is, but he won’t even give it as much as a thought. It’d only wound his manhood otherwise.  
When Derek approaches climax, at fucking last, he draws his cock out of Stiles’ mouth and spurts his cum on the swollen lips instead; the proclaim skin of his face and neck and chest, and the long lashes of the feline eyes. Stiles’ eyes water, all the tears that want to roll down his face, for being submitted to such humiliation.

  
“As much as I’d love to see you swallow,” Derek quirks a grin, “But I’d hate to be left with the trouble of looking after your stomachache.” Saying so, he tucks his cock back beneath his underwear and adjusts the fly. “Now, can you tell me what you learned from that?”

  
Stiles scoffs without a single trace of a smile, “That you need help?”

  
“A facetious remark, indeed.” Derek’s grin is still radiant as he walks back to the settee, picks out something that Stiles miserably failed to notice earlier and he moves forward again, only this time, he sidesteps Stiles who is intermittently coughing. “Obedience, Stiles, you need to start learning some obedience.”

  
At that, Stiles hears a deep whoosh in the air before something cold collides with his back, and he screams as pain spreads through him. Another whoosh and Stiles’ entire body jerks, the chains rattle ominously, reminding him, time and again, that there could be no escape from this. He screams again when the single-tailed whip latches and strikes his back. He knows it’s going to leave him with nasty welts across his back, and the nasty contusion in his chest hasn’t gone away either. He doesn’t know how he stifles in the scream the next time the whip leaves a mark on him, telling a story of how painful it’s been. But it works on Derek’s nerves as he adds more force to his strikes. This time, the welts start to bleed.  
By the time Derek throws the whip away, splattering blood as it spins in the air, Stiles is still and silent. Derek, at least, has the good grace to show little mercy by unchaining Stiles’ wrists and letting him fall to the cold enamel with a thump that just signifies he’s out like a light.

 

****

 

How many days have already passed with Stiles waking up to a different pain each day?

Is it night, or is it day?

He can’t tell anymore. He wasn’t even able to ever since he was brought in here, confined to the unrelenting darkness, bound by shackles and robbed of his freedom to fight.

He is hungry, so very hungry. Maybe he’ll die here of malnutrition and dehydration. Maybe hypothermia will finally set in, and he’ll die a slow death.

Stiles, as he lies there assuming a fetal position, he begins to wonder just for what reason was he brought to life in the first place, really, if suffering is all he has ever known. A part of his brain does understand that he is currently delirious from the pain radiating from his back. The exceedingly cold enamel helps lessen the throbbing a little bit. Getting humiliated like that, Stiles grits his teeth as his bleary eyes water more, reduced to nothing but a human toilet, a cum dump…

The dried blood on his back is an account of the lashing he took a few hours ago; the tainting his body and more, his soul.

He wonders if he can take any more of this, if he will finally break and doom himself and his friend.

He turns around very slowly, groaning when he moves wrong and jars his bruised welts, the whip marks, the evidence of getting physically abused. Does Derek care? Yes, might happen when hell freeze over. But maybe, that might be overturned if Stiles does something for Derek of his own accord, follow the rules, for example. It’s true he is practically blind with no single light speck seeping into the room, but Stiles relies on his hands to detect any signs of dirt. He finds more than he bargained for. Luckily, he still remembers the direction of the faucet and the drain grid. He works his way to the far corner of the room, hears the double chains of his collar cling in sync. He probes the floor and the wall for the said faucet. His hands suddenly hit something metal that clunks when it tips over and something squishy falls. He rejoices for having found the bucket and the sponge with which he can clean the floor.

After he finishes scrubbing the floor which has taken all his energy, he goes back to the faucet and washes away the crisp substance from his hair. Although it freezes his sore nipples and stings his back, Stiles continues to wash his body as well.

With this, Derek will be satisfied, and he might give him some food.

Thankfully, when he returns to his corner, the enamel has long since dried as though the underneath cement has sucked the water dry. He rubs the area he is going to sit on, vehement in his action. When he feels it a little hot, he sits, absorbing faint warmth with such a childish delight.

The blinding lights return, and Stiles straightens up, red-rimmed eyes wide and expectant.

Derek walks in with a small white box in his hand, hard soles hitting the enamel, echoing across the room along with the same eerie whistling. He then is standing before Stiles, tall and intimidating. But he is sneering this time; it makes Stiles wonder what kind of sick play he has planned for today.

“Wow, Stiles!” Derek begins, gushing on with genuine approval. “Look at the place, look at you!”

Stiles’ eyelids flutter for a moment before he nods, tentatively as it may seem.

Derek crouches beside the other on his haunches, puts the box aside and sighs after a quick once over at his captive, “You’ve done really well.” Saying so, he dispenses a gentle pat on Stiles’ head.

Stiles, still shivering from the cold water, he crumbles under the warm hand that is now palming his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans on the hand, some warmth that momentarily gifts him with the illusion that he’s back home again, safe. He lets out a shaky breath, and he clings to that hand, seeking more warmth. Suddenly, realization hits him like a slap and his eyes open wide. He finds Derek’s face near his, that same kindness he’s seen before is deep within those usually disdainful eyes, and it terrifies him more than anything else. He recoils from that warm hand, favoring the cold touch of enamel and freezing water over anything Derek has to offer.

Derek retreats his hand and shrugs, “You deserve a treat for being a good boy,” he says, “tell me, ‘what you wanna eat?”

“Anything…?” Stiles requires, doubtful by his tone.

Derek smiles, “Anything.”

After Derek types down the food Stiles has just listed on his phone, he faces Stiles now, “anything else?”

Stiles is happy that this is paying off well for him, and he knows if he keeps on this act, he can get all he wants. But instead of doing just that, he goes against his own plan and resigns to showing his own fake subjugation to the rules. “I’m very grateful for the kindness you have shown me.”

Derek’s face brightens up, “Wayhe, he learns!”

Stiles nods.

“You definitely deserve a treat for that too,” he gushes, “Although that’s hardly obedient, J” he smirks, “but compliance and obedience are two sides of the same coin.”

Stiles gulps audibly at the fear of his reward getting invalidated.

“Points for trying,” Derek cocks his head a little, smiling, “You have certainly improved.” Saying so, he types more on his cell-phone before he puts it back in his pocket. “So, as we wait for your treats to come,” he starts, “How about you let me take a look at your back.”

Stiles immediately complies, shifting a little so that his back is in plain sight.

Upon examining his back, Derek makes a soft noise, too indistinct for Stiles to distinguish. “That looks nasty,” he comments. Stiles bites back his own retort, instead, he grimaces in preemptive guilt. “Courtesy of you endeavoring to grate on my nerves earlier, ironic, isn’t it?”

At that, Stiles feels the tender touch of cotton dipped in something a little cold touching his burning skin, he hisses at the stinging but otherwise remains silent.

“You’re awfully docile today, silent too.” Derek notes out with his hand stilling, and that’s when Stiles’ thoughts and emotions run off-kilter. Has he been wrong adopting this sort of reticent behavior? Could it be Derek isn’t very approving of the idea of Stiles on not commenting on the things he says? Well, certainly, he almost sentenced himself to death the couple of times he went ahead and provided his levity on a silver platter, which leaves Stiles with no explanation really. Derek’s hand resumes its ministration, and Stiles sighs out a sigh of relief. “Well, that taciturn demeanor certainly doesn’t suit you.”

“How would you like me to be then, Derek si?”

“My, my” Derek barks a brief and fruity laugh, “Let’s dispense with formalities, shall we?” he grins, “but you have, indeed, improved.”

“All thanks to you.” Stiles says in a monotone, and he tsks in an audible sound because he is certain there’s something in the voice he has just conducted that has had him busted.

Derek tucks the cotton into a small plastic pack and back into the small box. “Don’t wash your welts again. It might result in an infection. Although the pain might be unbearable at first, but I’ll give you something to relief it, understand?”

Stiles nods, “clearly.”

“Now,” he starts, tagging closer to Stiles, who starts to freak out at the fact that Derek is creeping up on him, pressing against his back until pain shoots through him again. Stiles can’t help but press up against the wall to fight his instinctive drive to flee through an open door. “I recall telling you to show more spirit into it,” he grits out, hot breath fanning Stiles’ nape. More shuffling and Derek’s entire body warmth engulfs Stiles. He lets out a small sigh that is too indistinct for Derek to describe. “Using that honeyed voice on me, what do you take me for?”

Stiles’ hands clutch at the wall in two fists, bracing for the oncoming torture. He can hear his breathing labored and his heartbeats erratic. Yet he knows there is no escape from it.

In an impulsive second, Stiles feels a pair of soft lips on the back of his neck, ghosting over his skin and toying with the steel collar.

“Your body,” Derek whispers in a silvery voice that makes Stiles’ entire body quiver with something, dare he say, exciting. “I need only think of it, and I’m hard again.”

It pokes Stiles’ butt, a telltale bulge of a poorly concealed erection.

Derek resumes nibbling at Stiles’ neck, pecking soft kisses and purring every time Stiles as much as stirs. The latter is, with all honestly, fighting to not react, but his treacherous body is already falling under a spell, what with him sighing very deeply with his eyes closed. He supports his forehead on the wall, hoping the cold would heal his feverish body that is certainly not hot as a result of his recent bruises. When Derek behind one of his ears, very slowly that soft wet noises reverberate into his ear, Stiles lets out a prolonged moan. The cock poking him from behind is increasing in volume, and Stiles wonders if it’s such a good idea to excite Derek like that.

“You’re probably unaware of it,” Derek chuckles in his deep voice, “but you have been pressing back against my boner for a while now.”

Stiles’ eyes snap open at the impossible revelation, and he tries to reel around, but Derek has probably predicted a reaction like that. He is shoving him against the wall again.

“Not so fast, tiger.” Derek intones through a smirk, “not until I have my fun with you first.”

Stiles bears with it with all his might. He knows one wrong word and all this can go downhill, fast. He is not ready to sacrifice so much knowing his friends might be the victim of his recklessness.

He will continue to bear with it.

Derek’s tongue runs over the recently bruised skin of Stiles’ back, and the latter whimpers at the stinging throb the action results. His fists tighten on both sides of his head as he remains there, supporting himself by the wall before he falls over.

“Stiles,” Derek calls out in a breathy voice, “up on your knees,” he orders, “support your weight on the wall.”

And Stiles, casting shame and embarrassment aside, he abides.

Derek also lifts up to his knees. He works his zipper open and pushes down his pants and his boxers. The cock Stiles was forced to suck earlier is springing free again, taunting Stiles when it touches the inner side of his thighs.

“Close your knees together,” Derek breathes out into Stiles’ ear. Both his hands are working on probing the latter’s chest, exploring every nook and relishing the touch of smooth skin shuddering under his fingers. Stiles follows the order, bringing his knees together. Derek nudges the crown of his cock along Stiles’ rim, slowly pushing in.

“W-what…” Stiles rasps, confused and flushed all the way to his ears.

“Don’t be such a prude now, Stiles.” Derek chuckles, now biting down the tip of one of his captive’s ears. “We’ve come so far,” he says, “you already know the feeling of my cock up your ass, this isn’t so different.”

It is, though.

Derek isn’t thrusting into him; he is making use of his thighs instead. Although he is happy that he isn’t being raped senseless, he can’t help but wonder why this of all his schemes. Is he being considerate?

Not a chance.

“Oh,” Derek drones, “What do we have here?”

Stiles perks up at the remark, and in mere seconds, a novel hand cups his cock. He mewls at the sudden contact, his head tossing to the back until it falls on Derek’s shoulder.

“You’re hard.” Derek comments in a shrilling tone, as though he’s caught Stiles red-handed. As though the comment isn’t some theory subsequent to some magnificent occurrence. Stiles would give anything to deny that, that he is, indeed, erect. Derek suddenly starts thrusting. His thump on the crown of Stiles’ cock, poking it relentlessly.

Stiles can feel Derek’s dick hitting the back of his balls, and he doesn’t know why, but the feeling is absolute ecstasy. Derek’s thump, although it is hurting him, he can feel precum slowly starting to overflow.

“If you cum,” Derek starts, “I’ll cut off your tongue.”

Stiles’ face pales at that. A numbing feeling replaces the ecstasy, and he is then peering at the wall with a pair of terrified eyes. It’s not that difficult of a task to not, he but needs to remember the gore that took place in the woods and his cock will shrink.

Derek’s tongue comes back again to toy with his bruises. As Stiles whimpers at the resultant pain, Derek’s becomes faster. Both know that he is going to very soon, and Stiles is welcoming the idea with open arms because being treated like this is more than humiliating, it’s revolting. But he is soon robbed of his ideas when Derek pierces the skin of his shoulder with his teeth, biting on the skin so hard that Stiles can’t help but let out a brittle scream. Derek is coming all over the inner side of Stiles’ thighs. When he pulls away, Stiles falls over, palming the fresh wound.

“We’re not done yet.” Derek announces atop Stiles; his flat voice tells Stiles that is a plain order.

Stiles looks up through his slanted eyes, and the still-erect member of Derek’s gives him a bad feeling about how this is going to end. So if that wasn’t enough to satisfy Derek, he might eventually do it the traditional way, except Derek’s way is gorier. He can’t be satisfied if he doesn’t hurt Stiles.

“Lie flat on your back,” he instructs, “Fold your knees and pull them apart.”

Reluctantly, Stiles follows the precise order. Being stared at by Derek makes him feel naked, he is, but it sort of stresses the feeling of helplessness. And as a blush blooms over his two cheeks, he brings his arms to drape them over his face, but Derek is having none of it.

“And take the fun away from it?” Derek’s arrogant smirk makes its usual appearance. “Not a chance.” Saying so, he braces his arms on either side of Stiles’ head, looming in on the man beneath like a terminating threat. At first, he rubs his cock on Stiles’, and it seems the first trial gives him the exact thing he hoped for as he commences thrusting on his captive’s cock.

Stiles quickly reminds himself of the deaths back in the woods because something strange is happening, he is getting hard again, and worse, he is starting to feel it.

“My…” he groans, looking up at Derek, “My back, you’re hurting my back.”

Evidently, not the smartest thing to say as Derek furrows and glares down at Stiles who stills immediately.

But it’s really painful like this…

Derek straightens up, not rubbing against Stiles anymore and the latter wonders if this is when Derek fishes out for a knife to cut off his tongue. But Derek, unpredictable son of a bitch that he is, he palms his dick and begins to nudge the crown against Stiles’ puckered entrance.

“No,” he perks up, propping on his elbow with a hand and swatting at Derek’s shoulder with the other, “no, you can’t. I’m hurt!” He protests, vehemently. “You absolutely can’t.”

Derek slaps Stiles’ hand away as though he’s just been touched with something so vile that he was afraid it’d taint him. And honestly, Stiles does feel tainted. He feels as though he could taint anything with just a touch. That he is unclean, inside out, that a worm like him deserves everything that happens to it, and maybe more.

“Don’t you understand?” Derek wonders loudly. “I want it to hurt you,” he says, “Believe me, when I’m done with you, you’re going to beg me for this.”

“I’ll bite off my own tongue,” Stiles threatens, rules be damned, he is not getting fucked in the ass, not again. “Probably save you the trouble.”

Derek tilts his head. “Such false integrity,” he intones, “when you have already been dirtied, reduced to nothing but the filth I step on with my boots.”

Stiles’ face twitches, his eyebrows, his pupils, and his lips. And he is pushing them back, but he fails utterly when his tears fall down his cheeks.

The last thing he needed is someone below him wording his worst fears for him.

“Don’t act so high and mighty now,” Derek gives a scornful sneer, “have you already forgotten how you sucked me dry in here,” at this, he thumps Stiles’ lips before inserting it in, pressing against his tongue. “You looked like a cock-crazed slut to me.”

Stiles’ flat hand plunges forward on its own accord, aiming Derek’s face, the latter catches it midair and smirks at the man beneath.

“How refreshing,” He hums, amusement latent in his voice. “Now why don’t you be the slut you are for my cock and lie back. Let me have some fun?”

In the end, it’s all meaningless. It’s always been, always will be.

A knock on the slightly ajar door brings them to a cautious pause, and then a three-shelf trolley table lined with a lot of food is being pushed through the door followed by a tall man dressed in black trousers, a six-button double tailcoat, and a white dress shirt. The young man also wears round glasses, sports white gloves and shiny black loafers.

“Oh,” Derek beams, “Just in time, Peter.”

 

Stiles rushes to sit properly after the young man, Peter, eyes him with such heavy-lidded eyes.

“Sir,” Peter bows his head slightly, “I’ve brought what you asked for.”

“Never mind that,” Derek waves it off with a delicate hand. He looks down at the man beneath trying, so desperately, to bring his knees back together to protect himself from more humiliation. It’s amusing judging by his sneer. “I need you with this one,” he says, “chain his wrists.”

Peter bows in such sickening obedience “Yes sir.”

Just as Derek retreats to the settee, Peter approaches Stiles. The latter worms back until he meets the wall again, but eventually capitulates to his fate as Peter grasps one of his flailing arms and pulls him to the center where he is only a foot away from the settee Derek is currently occupying. Then, he brings the chains that are hooked to the ceiling, loosens them a bit and starts binding each of Stiles’ wrists.

“Well done.” Derek compliments the strange man, the latter bows again, wording his happiness for meeting his expectation. He walks up to the settee and stands beside Derek. The two of them look down at Stiles who is pulling against the chains, willing them to give already, of course, they don’t. “That’s where you belong.”

On his knees, he is bound and humiliated. Is that really where he belongs?

There’s a laugh that vibrates within his chest before he throws his head to the back, laughing out loud until his neck hurts. Indeed, it is revolting, but what redeems it is the idea that it was Derek who subjected him to all this, it wasn’t a choice of his free will. When the laughter morphs into a chuckle and then decrescendos to a mere hum, Stiles looks up into Derek’s blank eyes, amusement in his own, “This is where I belong? Don’t kid yourself, asshole.” He starts, “You’re a cheat,” he says. “All the way in, and all the way out.”

Derek’s eyebrows do a slight twitch.

“I can’t put up a decent fight because you’re starving me to death, making use of my epilepsy to flaunt about your false strength, but you and I both know that bragging about that to someone whom you’ve robbed of any means to defend himself is cheap.” He shrugs. “So don’t go thinking you’re better than me, in fact, you’re lower.” He smirks at his captor. “You’re the lowest, Derek.”

It’s as though in a slow motion: Derek’s right hand balls into a fist and launches to Stiles’ face. Although the latter sees it coming, he but smirks vaguely and lets it happen. Only, it comes to a sudden halt when it’s only a millimeter away from his cheek.

“Chickening out, how unusual!” Stiles chuckles, taking his eyes off of the fisted hand and back to Derek’s fuming eyes.

“Peter,” the said man suddenly calls out, “prepare him for me.”

But Peter, wide-eyed and still, is momentarily only staring at Stiles that it makes the latter inwardly recoil.

“Peter!” Derek’s voice calls louder this time, “do I have to repeat myself?”

The man, servant most likely, bows and apologizes, and then he goes about to follow the order. And as Stiles stiffens, readying himself for the ‘preparation,’ his eyes fall on Derek’s wicked ones, ridiculing him silently. Peter pulls the service table to him, that’s behind Stiles so he can’t see what’s going on.

“I preferred you docile, although conversely, I don’t quite dislike this side of you either,” Derek comments, “it’s more thrilling this way.”

Stiles hardens his gaze.

“Unfortunately for you,” he continues, “you’re not getting any treats.”

“I’d rather die than eat something I was fucked in the ass for.” He counters, “Obedience, gratitude? What are you, a kid? I cleaned myself and the floor earlier because I couldn’t stand the filth, not because I wanted to please you.” He huffs. “You’re so full of yourself,” he grits out, ignoring how enraged Derek is looking at him. “If you want everything cleaned, why don’t you hire a servant?”

Derek props his cheek on his knuckles with his elbow on the armrest; his eyes now look dull.

Novel hands, sickening to the touch, roam over his body. Darn, he had completely forgotten about Peter when he was rebuking Derek. Now his breath hitches down his throat when those hands, although gloved, they start to sense along with his rim.

So that’s what Derek meant by ‘prepare.’

A finger teases him before it’s inserted in, and Stiles squirms under the pull of the chains, detesting the feeling of being groped and prodded. Derek then brings his foot and tramples on Stiles’ cock; the latter mewls at the rough treatment, and ends up whimpering when Derek stomps harder. Peter inserts a second finger, crooks it within until it grazes something that immediately makes Stiles moan.

“Lowest, you say?” Derek’s deep voice replaces the muffled noises, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He chided, coolly. “Just look at yourself, getting hard from two men molesting you. Is there any lower than that?”

As though deciphering some meaning, Peter pushes in a third finger now, twisting them inside to rub the prostate.

Stiles looks down at his own erection; his entire face flushes at sight. He feels the fingers stretching him ruthlessly, almost tearing his round flesh. A relief overwhelms him when those fingers are yanked out, but it’s short-lived as they get replaced by something much solid, colder, and bigger.

“Peter,” Derek murmurs in a jaded tone, “some input is required for my slut here.”

“Very well, sir.” The young man speaks, “I have inserted a curved plug for extra sensation,” he says, now, he rotates the said plug and Stiles’ entire body trembles. “The curved shape of this plug is specifically designed to target the prostate gland, granted, the extra weight of the metal device also adds more sensation, stimulation can thus lead to trembling orgasms.”

“However,” Derek swings his index, “the object of this is not to make you feel good, is it?”

Stiles shoots a nasty glare at the man, for generally toying with his body however he wants. He, then, hears soft rattling, as though someone is rummaging through something. Then Peter is lifting Stiles’ slippery cock, strokes it with his hand that feels like it’s covered with something liquid and slimy. Stiles guesses it’s lube. A steel loop comes into view in Peter’s other hand. He opens it and places it on the area where Stiles’ penis and balls meet, and then a spiral device is cupped on his cock. Stiles watches, awed and horrified, as Peter comes with padlock and puts it on through a thread that connects the ring and the cock cage, and locks it. He switches his attention to Stiles’ chest, brings the clamps and pegs them to each of Stiles’ nipples, and then he moves away, walks up to Derek again and hands him the keys.

The hand that is not supporting the weight of his Derek’s head lifts up and beckons Stiles to come closer, which the man does after he chances a fleeting glance at Derek’s dead eyes. But the moment he shuffles, the thing plugged into his butt brushes against his P-gland, and Stiles stills, forces his eyes shut and tries to breathe through it. But he knows Derek hates to wait, so he grits his teeth and crawls his way to Derek. The latter takes his cock out from the unzipped fly. He looks at Stiles and then cards his fingers through the latter’s brown hair, gentle strokes providing false comfort. Stiles’ chin dips, he hates this –he loathes it, last time, he almost choked to death because Derek pushed all the way to the back of his throat. Eventually, he swallows his pride and parts his lips, slowly taking the half-erect penis in his mouth.

Derek excluded, Stiles never sucked a cock before. As a matter of fact, he never had his cock sucked. He has absolutely no recollection of how this is done. In retrospect, he did come across some gay videos when he was still discovering the world of stimulator through ion, and honestly, he never thought he’d be subjected to off a man.

“Diving straight in,” Derek scoffs, his fingers still stroking Stiles’ scalp, “hungry for my cock, aren’t you?”

It’s not even been a minute since Stiles started bobbing down and up on Derek’s cock, taking it and then drawing back to the tip, sucking shallowly and then diving in again. Derek is rock hard in his mouth.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” Stiles smirks once he pulls back, lips swollen and wet, “getting like this from a slut sucking you off.”

The fingers on Stiles’ hair clench until he winces, and then he is pulled down, mouth on the cock covered in precum. “If you have time to chat, you should finish off properly.”

Stiles’ anxiety shoots to the ceiling because Derek is thrusting into his mouth again, choking him.

“Peter.”

Moments later, Stiles starts feeling Peter playing with the plug inside him rubbing his prostate. He can’t help the moans that escape him and fan on the tip of Derek’s cock in his mouth. His nipples are tugged at by the clamps and he genuinely wants some relief, but the ring on his cock is blocking him, denying him of a much-needed orgasm.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Derek chuckles darkly. “I’ll make you a deal, if you beg for my cock, I’ll unlock the cage.” Saying so, he pulls his cock out of Stiles’ mouth, giving him a chance to reply.

“An integrative bargaining, is it?” Stiles comments after spitting aside.

“No more unilateral actions,” Derek confirms, “just say the magic word and you’ll find relief.”

“Are you joking?” Stiles chides, “Why would I beg for your dick when Peter here is doing a terrific job of making me feel good?” he asks, albeit rhetorical so Derek remains silent, “you’re like a child, relying on brute force, couldn’t even make me hard in both times.”

This time, the punch does land on Stiles’ cheek. And instead of precum, he rolls his chin and spits blood, and then he looks up at Derek. “See?” he reminds, “Brute.”

“You just had to have the last word, didn’t you?” Derek grits out, now slowly lifting up to his feet. “Peter, leave.”

Said man bows and retreats from the room. The door creaks and closes shut.

Stiles, for some mysterious reason, he is not scared. He did screw with Derek’s mind, provoking him like that, but it’s as he said, Derek is exactly like a child, too self-conceited to see what’s really important. And he knows the man is going to punish him, but this is where it gets fun, Even though he will punish him, Derek won’t make any threats, won’t even bring up Derek.

Through the punishment, he will try to prove himself.

Childish, isn’t he?

Derek aims the buttplug, yanks it out and throws it aside. Instead, he replaces it with his cock, pushing it in without any hesitation until Stiles falls over but the chains keep him up.

“I’ll show you,” Derek promises, “you’re going to beg for it.”

Stiles is glad; he is so glad that Derek can’t see his face from this position, that he can’t see his smirk.

Stiles, as Derek promised, is on the verge of begging, he wants to come at least once, what with Derek quitting thrusting to hit his prostate but grinding into it instead, rubbing it with such eagerness.

“Stop…” Stiles moans on the gasps. “Stop grinding into me!”

Derek ignores the request completely as he engrosses himself in sucking Stiles’ neck. “The magic word, Stiles, come on.”

Derek has lifted Stiles on his lap and is currently grinding into him, delicious squelches result from the action. Because Derek already came before between Stiles’ thighs, he is dragging this on and enjoying himself.

Stiles’ entire body is hot and trembling. His cock is swelling, about to burst. A game or not, he needs relief, he needs it now. “I want…” he rasps breathlessly, “to... I want to cum already.”

Derek brings his mouth to Stiles’ ear, “I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

The hot breath tingles down there, and Stiles arches a little off of Derek, here, he can come at that, just, if the damn ring could go off. “Derek, please” he whimpers, the tears he fought to keep held in, they fall down his cheeks. “Please help, I’m begging you. I’ll burst.”

Derek lets out a sweet chuckle, one of his hand brings a tiny key to the cock cage, unlocks the padlock and takes it off. The ring comes off next, and then all the blood rushes to Stiles’ cock, the tingle and the dizziness. Stiles can finally come, but suddenly, Derek thrusts into his captive and in the same time, he bites hard on Stiles’ already bruised shoulder.

Stiles’ vision goes white as him, at last, arrives. He tosses his head to the back, assured Derek would shoulder his head. He enjoys him with a brittle shout.

Derek takes his dick out and cums all over Stiles’ ass and the floor, coating it milky white. “Whether you realize it or not,” Derek speaks, his hand coming to Stiles’ hair, combing it with his fingers. “You’re not invincible, Stiles,” he reveals, “remember that.”

Stiles swallows and lifts his head off of the other’s shoulder; he looks down at his penis, red and swollen, nonetheless relieved.

Derek adjusts his clothes and stands up, aiming the table, “Although I’m partial to the thrill you give me,” he says, “I must say, docile or not, you definitely deserve a treat for begging.”

Stiles winces and his shoulders tense, he looks down, ashamed that he fell for his desires to even lift his head.

“There’s food, and oh look, a blanket.” Derek gushed, “a bar of soap, too.”

Stiles isn’t feeling so triumphant.

“Which one do you want first?” Derek asks, “Or maybe, you can have them all.” So out of the blue, he starts pouring the contents of the dishes onto the ground, stew, spaghetti, beef soup… all mingling on the already dirtied floor.

Stiles’ heart twists with that, all that food getting thrown when he himself is starving, so what is Derek expecting him to lick it off the floor?

“Whoops,” Derek intones, “it looks like I dirtied the floor. But it’s alright, I’m sure a person such as yourself, who is absolutely appalled by filth, would clean it up.”

Saying so, he tosses the blanket and the soap on the settee –thank God for that or Stiles would have to cover himself with something so disgusting– ups and leaves, taking the trolley table with him. Didn’t even unchain Stiles’ wrists, there’s no one to clean this mess.

“So fucking childish.” Stiles grits out.

 

 

 

A sample of a steel neck collar with nipple clamps [here](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB14mIiLXXXXXcZXFXXq6xXFXXX2/Dia-140mm-350g-male-stainless-steel-Neck-Slave-font-b-Collar-b-font-nipple-clamps-clips.jpg).

A sample of a single-tailed whip can be found [here](https://previews.123rf.com/images/schristina/schristina0905/schristina090500024/4926953-Black-Single-Tail-Whip-isolated-on-white-background--Stock-Photo.jpg).

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos are love.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Stiles never predicted the next time Peter would walk through that door to help him through his pain, his injuries and the mess Derek created before finally vanishing without a word. The usual, Stiles thinks it’s the usual. So, when Peter removes Stiles’ chains, he hoists him up, and grunts as Stiles starts squirming. The bigger man assures Stiles that he only means well, and that he is here with orders from Derek to clean him up and feed him. Stiles stills. He is partially relieved that he doesn’t have to endeavor to pry it out of him: the reason Peter is loyal to Derek to a fault. He also marvels at the fact that he, at last, can eat some food. He sits still and lets Peter take the wheel from there.

 

For the next two days or so –Stiles isn’t really sure because time seems to pass really slowly in this place–Peter is the only one who shows up at the dungeon, either to clean Stiles up or to feed him. However, for both days, it doesn’t go peacefully because Peter, once he had Stiles returned to his spot and chained down, would put a silicone plug into Stiles’ entrance and leave it there until he had to clean him up again. And with all things considered, Stiles has a pretty decent idea about the reason why.

 

Today, Stiles’ entire body is feeling quite heavy for some reason, but that’s not today’s milestone. It makes it the third time Peter appears in Derek’s stead, and Stiles is relieved, more or less. It’d have rattled his core if Derek continued to starve him; although, that’s partially his own fault since he’s the one who has been acting pretty high about it. Peter is bringing food again and he helps Stiles eat, cleans his mouth, and straightens his hair. Stiles’ eyes are attentive. He knows Peter is going to be messing with him next, so he braces for it. Getting probed like that –he grits his teeth– he’d never get used to it. As expected, Peter works next on rotating the plug, massaging the inner gland in a way that makes it impossible for Stiles not to have any sort of reaction. His precum spurts and plops onto the enamel, slick and transparent.

Peter stops abruptly, standing up to double-check the chains. As he does that, Stiles’ eyes fall on the bulge growing in size under the man’s trousers. It horrifies him. He finds Peter looking back at him with dead eyes, so he quickly looks away, huffing. “You’re sick, all of you.”

 

This is torture. This is what torture really is. You can’t just fuck around with a man’s prostate gland like that and let him deal with it on his own while his hands are tied. But worse than that is that his entire body is in flames. He can even feel the metal on both of his wrists heating up, so he concludes that his fever is going up at an alarming rate.

The lights stream all over the room, almost blinding him if he did not hide his eyes under his upper arm.

“You don’t look so good.”

That voice. A deep voice that, to Stiles’ chagrin, has managed to plant terror into him; a voice that could make him tremble with only a whisper.

Stiles’ bleary eyes haven’t adapted yet to the lights, but he finds it less painful when he squints up at the white silhouette before him. “Derek…”

“Tell me where it hurts.”

Stiles’ lids open wider, eyes analyzing the lab coat, the glasses, and the dark colored clothing underneath. He finally settles on Derek’s eyes, and something in them makes him shrink in on himself.

“’Guess I’ll just have to help myself then.”

Stiles suddenly feels cold fingers feeling his forehead; the sensation is unbelievable for a moment.

“It seems you’re running a bit of a fever.” Derek retrieves his hand back. “I guess the wounds on your back have became infected, nothing to worry about though. It’s because you haven’t been keeping a healthy diet that your body isn’t able to fight off viruses as it should.”

That’s a relief for you. Stiles is happy his insides aren’t rotting away or anything. But that doesn’t mean an infection isn’t just as bad. However, since Derek caught it early, he’s sure the doctor, however psychotic he might be, won’t let him die from some mere infection. Well, since it’s been a few days since Stiles has seen his abductor, this reunion rather emphasizes everything that has happened lately, and Stiles is crushed with all sorts of feelings. When he looks up, his eyes are more focused now. He shudders.

Derek is looking back at him, but there’s a wild smile creeping up his lips.

“What’s with you, psychotic doctor?” Stiles starts, brows meeting in a deep furrow on his clammy forehead. “Happy that I got sick?”

“No, I’m not.” Derek denies, yet his smile is still plastered on his face.

“Then why are you smiling?”

Derek’s eyes glint. “I was just thinking,” he starts. His smile turns predatory. “It’d be so damn hot to fuck you while you’re feverish.”

Stiles’ gulp echoes across the room.

Derek then barks a laugh. “You don’t have to look so horrified,” he says, “I’m just sharing my fantasies with you. What’s wrong about that?”

Without adding anything else, Derek unchains Stiles’ right wrist and leads him to the wall at the back.

“For certain reasons, I can’t take you out of this room.” Saying so, he crouches beside the other and lets out a prolonged sigh. Now he elaborates. “I know how you must be feeling right now but bear with it for a couple more days. For me, okay?” His hand darts to the other’s bruised neck, fondling the injuries he inflicted himself.

Stiles’ entire body is hot. He feels so hot that his skin might actually melt off. And his breathing, it’s just too erratic to sound normal. Maybe he is dying. Who gives a damn anymore? He is too groggy to even think straight. Fevers do that, right?

When he lifts himself up, shaky knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He chalks it up to his fevered delirium as he inches his unchained hand toward his throbbing heat after making sure Derek was still watching him. He cups his own cock.

Derek’s face morphs from that of a stoic medical professional tending to his patient, to a wild animal salivating at the sight of delicious prey.

Stiles doesn’t know what he is doing anymore. He blames his body. Yes, it’s easier like that. His treacherous body trembles every single time Derek’s fingers touch him. Derek made him like this. He desecrated him, and he taught him how to be easily debilitated. Stiles’ hand starts moving up and down his shaft, and moaning lustfully every time the plug brushes against his G-spot.

“No way,” Derek gushes, repositioning himself properly on his haunches. “You’re actually going to give me that.” It’s a clear statement.

Stiles’ ‘fevered delirium’ gifts him with more crafty ideas. Although he doesn’t know why his body can’t obey him–won’t obey him, he ends up giving in to that side: the side he never knew he had in him.

His chained arm pulls against the metal, desperate to join its twin in stimulating the head of his cock. Stiles’ hip shifts a little to cause more friction down inside, and it comes out with amazing results. He feels his climax closing in on him so his body arches off the wall while his head rests on it. A few more strokes, and he cums all over his hand. He finally looks away from the ceiling and down at Derek. His cheeks flushed and his eyes bleary, and although he is feverish and delirious, he doesn’t fail to see Derek’s tongue snaking out across his upper lip as though he wanted to devour him right then. Stiles smirks to himself and uses that hand covered in cum to touch the scar on Derek’s face, leaving a long trail of cum on the latter's scarred cheek.

It’s as though a button has been switched and Derek darts forward, pushing Stiles against the wall, fervent and greedy. “You’re resilient,” he comments, “You’re so fucking resilient I’m lucky.”

Stiles feels his body being maneuvered so that he is facing the wall instead. Then, the plug is roughly pulled out of him and he can’t help but let out a gasp.

“You’re dripping away down here.” Saying so, Derek nudges Stiles’ entrance with the crown of his cock. “This is going to feel so good, for the both of us of course.”

Without meaning to, Stiles pushes against the cock poking his anus. Because it’s so slippery, the other’s cock ends up sliding along Stiles’ rim. The latter moans his dissatisfaction shamelessly.

“Whoa,” Derek chuckles deeply next to Stiles’ ear. “You’re so greedy for me today. What happened”–he uses his tongue to fondle Stiles’ hot earlobe–“did you miss me?”

Stiles’ back arches against the voice that sends sensual tremors all over his body. He looks at Derek’s face, the latter’s jawline right in front of his mouth. He can’t resist it so he parts his teeth and bites the man’s jawline. The latter lets out a pleasurable sigh, his cock penetrating Stiles on its own accord.

Derek chuckles again, his hands now immobilizing the other from his hip bones. He starts thrusting into Stiles, driven wilder by the wetness and heat with his head tossed to the back, and his eyes wide and unbelieving.

“This…” he mumbles through his moans. “What the…” He tries again as Derek keeps on jerking his hips in a blur. “So amazing… feels so good…”

Derek gives him more time to enjoy this feeling. Besides, Stiles, forever obstinate and self-righteous, coming undone so wantonly like a bitch in heat makes Derek even hornier.

The sound of skin slapping skin, the breathless mumbles, and the wetness loosing up for Derek is too overwhelming. He needs to have a rein on this. He has to.

“I also get something from this, Stiles,” he suddenly informs after Stiles spurts his cum onto the tiled wall. “It’s tedious without the thrill.”

Stiles is too lost in this new sensation of fulfillment to pay attention to anything else really, so he gets quite the shock when Derek grabs the chain still attached to his left hand and wraps it around his neck. The problem with the chain is that the more you pull against it, the tighter it becomes. So the minute Derek wraps the chain on his neck, Stiles’ lungs start to feel suffocated. The more Derek thrusts into him, the harder it is to breathe.

“Now that’s a charming sound,” Derek comments after Stiles lets out choked off gasps. “See? This brings satisfaction for both of us.”

Instead of being horrified, Stiles’ penis twitches and becomes hard again. He feels Derek’s hands touching his back gently, if his current mind is of any reliable source.

“Your back, E,” Derek pants hotly, “it’s so sexy.” The gentle touches become merciless, clawing Stiles’ skin as though trying to tear his way in. Stiles mewls in pain again, and the mewl changes into a scream. Just like that, Derek releases his load in one major spurt.

 

*******

 

Stiles’ been waking up and drifting off back to sleep again for some undetermined time now. He remembers seeing Peter around in the lab wing: tending to him, feeding him, keeping him hydrated, and keeping him clean. When his fever was finally brought down by Peter’s remarkable skills and dedication, Stiles finds that he’s been sleeping on a memory foam mattress with nothing else on but his boxers and a chain around his neck. That really shouldn’t be the biggest of his worries.

Peter is here again, taking his temperature and allowing his hands to wander all over Stiles’ body. After a while, Stiles finally can’t tolerate it as he clutches the man’s wrists and digs his nails into the skin, just to make his point.

“I think I’ve had my share of getting prodded by you.” He grits out, giving the hands a hefty shove. “You can stop now.”

Peter acknowledges his request for the time being, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes as he eyes his scratched wrists. “I understand,” he says, “I’ll be reporting back to young master then.”

Just as he stands from his crouch, Stiles calls for him. “Wait, young master?”

Peter eyes him with a vague look. “Hale Derek is the young master.”

Like that didn’t reveal itself when Peter first called Derek 'sire.' Stiles isn’t an idiot. He figured it out, and the only reason he’s asking now is to urge Peter to elaborate. Of course, he isn’t interested in Derek’s social life, but whatever he can learn here today from this blank-faced guy could really help him out in ways he can’t even know yet.

“So what,” Stiles scoffs, “is this some ‘son of the owner turned evil’ saga, and you’re the butler keeping things in check?” he says, grating a little on the other’s nerves–if he has any–so he can spill what he knows.

“I’m not allowed to talk about anything to you,” Peter informs with impassive eyes.

“Humor me,” Stiles bites out, “I’m tucked between four walls, man. You and that asshole are the only things keeping me occupied–and not in a fun way, if you catch my drift.” He winks at the man.

Peter cocks his head at Stiles, making him fidget a little under the piercing glare. “It’s no secret so it couldn’t possibly be important,” he tells him. “Derek inherited this mansion from his parents who died in a car accident three years ago. My master was studying medicine abroad at that time before he came back and set up shop here, preferring to have his own clinic,” he says with a premature smirk. “The mansion consists of three floors: the first one, which is the one at the very top, is my master’s personal suite, if you will; the second one is the clinic; and the third, which was built underground, is the dungeon, where you currently are.”

Stiles processes the information with a thoughtful expression.

“That’ll be all for today,” Peter intones, “I’ll come back later.”

“Wait!” Stiles calls out again, “My friend. When can I see my friend again?”

“That is not for me to decide,” Peter tells him in monotone.

“Then go tell Derek for me.” Stiles’ eyes quiver as he looks up at the butler. “Tell him that I requested this. Please.”

He studies the captive for a moment before he walks away, making his way to the door. Stiles’ eyes are scrutinizing the retreating figure. As soon as Peter leaves the lab, Stiles examines the length of the chain on his neck and he finds that it reaches the bottom left corner of the room, deeply inserted into the wall. Someone must have been crafting ideas, architecting ways to entomb him in this sickening room.

So this dungeon is the basement of the clinic, which means there’s some way out. Derek and his minions walk in and out freely so that probably entails an elevator, or a staircase if Stiles is lucky. And Scott is in the room just down the hall, assuming that he is still near the room he had been at when he was first brought here. The main reason Stiles asked to see his friend is just so he is sure he’s in one piece for when he comes to save him.

 

He only realizes that he’s nodded off when he jerks awake, sits up and there they are: Scott and the butler guy, Peter. They are standing on the right side of the red settee with Derek slumped on it, leaning forward with elbows on knees, a sneer cramping his lips.

Stiles shoots towards his friend, but the backlash from the chain pulling taut against his neck sends him sprawling backward onto the mattress with a gasped grunt.

“Easy there, tiger,” Derek drawls. “You’ll hurt your throat.”

Stiles grimaces when his throat throbs from that impact. He uprights himself and pushes down the instinct to bolt toward Scott, instead taking a moment to eye his friend. And then he sees his blindfolded eyes, and something like extreme relief washes over him. Other than that, Scott seems fit as a fiddle– scared, and trembling with fear, but he’ll worry about his emotional trauma when they get out of this place,  _alive_. He fixates Derek with a cold glare now.

“When I said I wanted to see him,” he starts, “this is not what I had in mind.”

Derek tilts his head and waves it in a long, slow shake. “True,” he comments, “but you’re forgetting something.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow at the other.

Derek latches onto the chain around Stiles’ neck and tugs, pulling his captive along. The settee is placed just at the rim of the mattress, and it isn’t all too hard for Stiles to guess the reason why as his captor seats himself atop its cushions and drags Stiles down between his parted legs. Derek brings Stiles’ nose to his, and Stiles has to sit on his knees and hands to keep the position.

“You said you wanted to see your friend. Although it’s hectic upstairs, I still brought him to you, and what do I get in return?” He taps Stiles’ cheek in light slaps. “You… wicked little shit,” he bellows, “You can’t even thank me for my efforts.”

Without his consent, Stiles’ hands clandestinely take Derek’s left one that’s still pressing the chain down, and he kisses it. “I’m very grateful to you. Thank you so much for bringing my friend to me. I can’t believe what a merciful man you are towards someone so ungrateful like me.”

Derek looks taken aback for a fragment of a second before he smirks. “That’s more like it,” he chirps. “Now you can have that friend reunion you wanted with him, but make it quick.”

Stiles nods to the man and faces his friend. “Scott?”

Scott, dressed in white shorts and plain T, stiffens. “Stiles, is that really you?”

Stiles almost breaks at his incredulous tone; he must have thought Stiles was dead all this time. “Yea, yea,” he assures him with a warm smile. “Are you injured? They don’t hurt you, do they?”

Scott shakes his head fervently. “And your epilepsy,” he says, “your head took quite the trauma last time I saw you.”

“I’m okay,” he says before pausing. Taking in what he’d just said, Stiles furrowed his brow in thought. “Actually, I haven’t had a seizure in a while now.”

“That’s”–Derek perks up–“because I healed it.” He lifts himself up, sidesteps the mattress, then flops down beside Stiles and lets out a sigh. “We can do that entire explanation thing later,” he says with a slight eye-roll. “Now...” He ghosts his hands over Stiles’ back. The bruises are healing beautifully. “Looking at you guys talk, I suddenly feel like I want to be part of this.”

Stiles, for the sake of his friend and the daunting thought that he might get beheaded in front of his eyes, lets Derek do as he pleases with him.

“You see, Scott, your friend and I are very close now,” he starts, smirking cheekily at Stiles, whose eyes are widening in shock. “Umm no, that’s not it.” He shakes his head. “We’re intimate now. Yea, that about covers it.”

“Stiles.” Scott clears his throat nervously. “What’s he on about?”

“Nothing,” Stiles provides hastily. “It’s a crazy man’s talk.”

Derek’s hand clutches Stiles’ hair from the back, pulls him so his lips are on Stiles’ ear. “I can play this game,” he proclaims. “If I remembered correctly, Scott,” he tells the young man, “you had a girlfriend, right?”

Both friends tense.

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles hair. “What? You didn’t expect me to run a little background on my pets?” he jokes. “Say, you must have had sex with her many times. I’m sure it felt great, and I don’t want to hear the story, but what about your childhood friend here.”

“What’ you doing?” Stiles hisses.

Derek jerks his head to silence him. “I’m talking now, love, don’t interrupt.” He scoffs, “So I was saying, ever seen your friend in some compromising position before?”

“What are you talking about you sick bastard!” Scott roars. “What did you do to Allison? Where’s she?”

Stiles is proud of his friend’s fighting spirit.

“Don’t be so difficult, Scott.” He chuckles, “I asked you a question, stop whining.”

“Why would I listen to you?” he bawls, tears falling like a torrent.

Derek lets out a little sigh and pulls Stiles’ ear to his mouth again. “Let’s play a game, shall we?” he whispers into his captive’s ear. “Every time he refuses to answer a question, you’ll take the brunt.”

Stiles shakes his head because he knows how dangerous and degrading the man’s games are. “No, no,” he refuses doggedly, still in a whisper. “You can’t. No, you can’t.”

Derek considers it through a thoughtful silence and then his lips curl up in a wicked smirk. “I sort of think I can.” Saying so, he looks at Scott again. “So Scott, ever seen your friend having sex before?”

Scott scrunches his face up despite the blindfold hiding his eyes. “What kind of sick question is that?”

Derek mumbles a ‘one’ before he plants himself behind Stiles and pushes him down, so they’re reclining on their sides. “Say, Scott, ever heard your friend moan like a whore?”

“You’re sick.” Scott breathes out, chiding. “You need to get the hell lobotomized out of you!”

Derek chuckles on a mumbled ‘two’ before he unzips his fly and takes out his cock.

“Scott, just ans–” Stiles almost finishes his sentence, but Derek’s hand cups his mouth to stop him.

“No cheating,” he whispers into Stiles’ ear.

“What’ you doing to my friend?” he rebukes, tensing in Peter’s hands.

“I have another question for you, Scott.” Derek muses, a hand stroking Stiles’ hipbone. “Ever seen your friend get fucked balls deep?”

“Stiles!” Scott calls out suddenly. “What’s he been doing to you? Don’t fall for his tricks; we’ll get out of here, okay. Just get it together! You hear me?”

Stiles’ eyelids flutter before he looks down, letting the inevitable happen.

“He’s just screwed you over, your childhood friend.” Derek lets out a hearty laugh, now lifting Stiles’ leg from the thigh so he can insert his cock in.

“Derek…” Stiles sees no other way out of this but resorting to the thing he absolutely despises. “Please, Der. Not like this, I’ll do anything for you, just not this.”

“You’re such a fascinating creature, Stiles.” Derek snorts. “You always seem to think that this is about what you want or what makes you feel good, but it’s not. How many times do I have to say it?”

Scott is still grumbling about his friend’s wellbeing, not really having an ounce of an idea about what’s really going on.

Stiles clutches at the mattress, his eyes shutting too forcefully. “Derek, I’m begging you,” he pleads croakily. “Don’t do this to me. Derek please, I’ll die. I’ll seriously go out of my mind if you do this.”

Derek nudges the head of his dick against that entrance. “Umm, now I’m having second thoughts.”

Stiles’ stomach churns with the sudden flicker of hope. “Anything, Derek, anything you want. I promise, just not this.”

“You’re pretty smart; I give you that.” Derek drones. “Making it sound like it's about what I want when you and I both know that’s not the case. Wow. But you know what, this is what I want.” Saying so, he forwards his hips and pushes into Stiles. The latter slaps a hand over his own mouth to keep from letting out any sounds, but he fails eventually when Derek snaps his hips so quickly, stretching him wide, spreading his flesh. “But I still love it when you beg.”

“S...” Scott croaks. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“I’m… fine.” Stiles rasps in between stifled moans and low whimpers. “Don’t… worry.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, Stiles.” Derek sing-songs, joyfully. “Hey, Scott,” he calls after pausing, and Stiles beside him is breathing so hard by now. “Keep your mouth shut for a second. If you distract me again, I’ll snap, and believe me, you won’t like me if I snap.”

“Why,” Scott grouses. “What are you planning to do to him?”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Derek grouses. “Peter, if he speaks again, snap his neck.”

Scott immediately stills.

“Scott,” Stiles rasps out. “Just do what he says, I’m begging you.”

Said man lets out a tiny sob and Stiles’ hands are kind of busy so he can’t kiss his pain away. He is sorry for his friend, though, that he is here, witnessing what’s being done to him.

“Jeez, Stiles, you’re no fun anymore.” Derek grumbles, uninterestedly. “Begging everyone for everything”

“Just get it over with, you bastard.” Stiles’ voice is flat.

Derek shifts their position so that Stiles is facing the mattress and his ass in the air for Derek to pound. And Derek falls horribly silent after that. He starts thrusting and doesn’t complain when Stiles buries his mouth in the mattress. Scott’s sobs increase because, obviously, he’s figured it out, at long last. Derek is silent, but the force brought with every one of his thrusts is too robust for Stiles’ delicate body to handle that his anus starts to drip blood down his thighs, but Derek doesn’t even stop for a breather.

Stiles finally finds himself begging for some mercy. “S-slower… Derek…” he whimpers into the mattress. “You’ll… break me…”

“I’m just getting it over with,” Derek counters, acidly.

Stiles has no retort ready up his sleeve, and the pain keeps him hushed for the moment. This sick man will always try to twist his words to what fits his mood, and Stiles will always end up hurt. This is Derek’s place, everything will go the way the man wants it to.

The clapping of the wet skins, the low moans and whimpers, and the grunts Derek makes every time Stiles clenches around him horrifies Scott. The sounds and the scene of Derek fucking Stiles’ ass enchant Peter’s cock, and it is soon springing up ready for action too.

“St… Derek…” Stiles sobs into the mattress now. The pain, the throb in his lower body is too overwhelming by now, and he fears the numbness that will follow. The stench of copper in the back of his nose is the evident telltale of the blood resulted from his anus getting stretched by sheer force. “You’re… breaking me… Derek… it hurts…”

Derek bellows. “Shut the hell up already!” he shouts, now clenching his fist in Stiles’ hair, yanking it up until Stiles grunts from the sudden and jarring wrench of his muscles. “You’re so annoying, talking and talking. I just want to have some quiet time. Is that so fucking much to ask!”

Stiles’ body stills. Derek always barks orders, tells him to get on his knees or to suck him off… he’s never, however, ordered Stiles for something so simple as to stop talking. And he’s certainly never yelled it. So, he knows. He knows Derek isn’t bluffing, and can break his neck just because he doesn’t like the constant talking. “Alright,” he says breathlessly, trying to appease the other’s anger because Derek’s unpredictable actions cost him dear. “Okay, Derek, okay”–he swallows his drool–“do whatever you want.”

Derek is still panting after his rant, but soon he leans his forehead on Stiles’ hair, closing his eyes. “Just… don’t talk, okay?”

Stiles nods quickly.

Derek resumes his merciless, clumsy, lust-laden pistons, bringing Stiles over the verge as the man eventually closes his eyes and surrenders to complete darkness. Derek still fucks him in the ass, arms taut on either side of Stiles’ shoulders and his hips snapping as he thrusts into the mess of precum and blood. And yet, he still doesn’t cum.

“Sir,” Peter speaks for the first time, his voice breaking the dreadful silence heavy with Scott’s low sobs and Derek’s loud pants. “He requires medical attention.”

“Get out,” Derek orders. “Take Scott to his room; you leave too.”

Peter bows his head slightly and drags a devastated Scott by the elbow. The two walk out of the room, and the door closes.

Now that he is wrapped in some much-needed privacy with his unconscious captive, Derek finally lets his emotions take hold of him. He draws his cock out from the mess he created, but a long string of red blood and white cum still wants to connect him to the twitching and torn hole. He chuckles. This is his doing–this power he has in his hands, where he can break or save someone. He can’t believe he’s just come to this room after a successful brain surgery, and now he failed this. He can’t say it’s on purpose, but he wonders if it isn’t.

Stiles is lying limply beneath him, lax hands by his sides and his face lying on his cheek. His hair is a mess, his back is a mess, and heck, his ass is a messier mess.

Derek moans.

He couldn’t come before because he didn’t want it to happen, but now, he can finally re-live something he used to find pleasure in, something Stiles taught him.

He flips Stiles on his back, taps at his cheek until Stiles groans and gasps awake. He hushes him when Stiles flails uncoordinatedly. “Shh,” he says atop him, and at the peering figure. Stiles tenses and tries to wiggle his way away, but Derek holds him down. “Listen. Hey listen, there’s a 4-5-inch lesion in your canal, and you need surgery.”

Stiles frowns at him.

Derek bites his bottom lip and pushes his fingers through Stiles’ hair; then he ducks down to his ear. His other hand moves downwards. “You hear that?”

Stiles listens in, and then he hears it, the sound of Derek’s hand rubbing the cock that has assaulted him.

“You hear it?” He breathes out shakily, grunting in between. “That’s the sound of my wet cock, Stiles. It’s so wet for you,” he moans. “Fuck, I’m so hard again, so hard and wet.”

The wet clapping echoes and Stiles gulps.

“Stiles,” Derek moans, rests his forehead on the other’s cheek.

Stiles, as though hypnotized, pushes Derek off him gently until he is on four again with Derek sitting on the mattress. Then he crawls his way to Derek’s cock, rubs his face on it before he takes it between his plump lips.

Derek groans. “Oh yea…” he moans. “You wanna taste it?”

Stiles plunges on the cock, taking it deeper. His ass in the air with all the sticky fluids running down his inner thighs and tainting the white mattress red. He flaps his tongue on the head of the cock before sweeping it in his mouth again.

Derek keens, “Oh fuck. Take it deeper.”

Stiles sucks on the cock with fervor, moans on its crown because it’s big and thick, and his jaw is slowly feeling the strain.

Derek plays with Stiles’ hair. “You like how I taste, don’t you? I’m so hard for you,” he moans. “Slap it on your face, J.”

Stiles ends the sucking with a wet plop, and he taps the cock on his lips. He glances up and finds Derek eating him up with those dangerous eyes. And then he brings his fingers to brush Stiles’ hair in false gentleness.

“Eyes so cold,” he remarks as Stiles ghosts lips on the hard cock. “Eyes that look like that only for me; a hatred that is harbored for me, raw lust and a body of beauty given only to me, just me.” He gives a triumphant smirk. “Do you remember last time I came here?”

Stiles licks the precum but doesn’t look away from Derek’s eyes.

“We didn’t just fuck,” he says, “didn’t just have sex.”

Stiles pulls away from the cock altogether so he can sit up, precum rolling down his chin.

Derek pins the other to the mattress to mount him. Wordlessly, Stiles folds his knees to his chest and parts them for Derek who brings his cock to Stiles’ rim, lining it against the abused entrance.

“Oh Stiles, you were feverish, so you probably don’t remember,” he says, “but we made love.” Saying so, he pushes his cock into Stiles and watches with delight how Stiles’ phlegmatic face scrunch and grimace in pain. Derek moans so deeply. “And you were fucking amazing.”

Derek is thrusting into his captive with less force but more technique. He does it very slowly, and he even grinds into Stiles every time the latter whimpers. He shifts so that he is peering down at Stiles with his arms braced on both sides of his face.

“Open your eyes, Stiles,” Derek breathes out. “Look at me.”

Stiles parts his eyelids, and his bleary eyes look up at Derek’s sharp ones as though waking up from a trance. At the eye-contact, something in Stiles somersaults and his cock gets harder despite the incapacitating pain radiating from his backside. He brings his hands each to the ones braced next to each side of his face, and he clasps them around Derek’s wrists. He gradually loosens his pressed lips and allows his moans to do as they want.

Derek’s delighted face glints and he picks up his pace and grinds harder against Stiles’ prostate. Stiles, lying beneath the man and helpless, makes soft moans that soon morph into pleasurable whimpers.

“Stiles you were made for me.” Derek groans, his thrusts rocking Stiles’ body. “Whether you want to believe it or not, you were made for me.”

Stiles lets out an enchanting scream when his cum shoots out of his cock and coats his chest. However, Derek doesn’t stop because the after-twitching teases his own cock, and he quickens his pace. Beneath him, Stiles is sobbing and whimpering, but uttering no word of complaint. It all but excites Derek even more, and he doesn’t know how much more he can do. How long before Stiles finally cracks under strain beneath him, and does he want to test it out?

He looks very closely at Stiles’ lips as they quiver; he watches as those lips get chewed on by Stiles’ teeth, how they part and press on one another. Soon enough, Derek is leaning down, pressing his lips on Stiles’. And at the mere contact, he spurts his cum, filling Stiles’ insides. Derek pulls away from the press of their lips. His eyes roaming over Stiles’ face and the lines crossing over it in a vague expression, and he doesn’t understand it. He can’t.

The brunet brings his hands to his face to hide it–whatever it is, and he cries.

Derek watches intently how tremors rack Stiles’ body as he cries and snivels like a child, and he brushes his hair from his clammy forehead when beads of sweat roll down Stiles’ forehead. His hand absorbs the heat coming off of Stiles’ skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

 

 

 

All of that happened almost four days ago. Now, Stiles has completely healed from his injuries, and no new injuries have been inflicted on him. Peter is the one who has been tending to him all this time. Derek came by only once to check on Stiles’ wound before he deemed it cured. He prescribed more bed rest for him, and then vanished without a word. Whether because he feels remorse or not, Stiles isn’t going to debate it–when it comes to that psycho, things like guilt get sieved out. The only thing that’s probably been keeping him from harassing Stiles lately is his work upstairs. Today, Stiles is going to kick off his escape plan to their freedom.

 

He is still on the mattress, but these days Peter chains both his wrists, not his neck.

It would have worried him tremendously if it mattered, but it doesn’t. And what the bigger man is clueless about is that, besides leaving the lights on, leaving a first aid box lying around someone who has been subjected to all sorts of torture your brain can conjure up is, indeed, a very stupid mistake to make.

Using his foot, Stiles drags the small white box to him and knocks it over with his foot, making the contents inside fall out. He uses his big and index toes to pick out a 90 millimeter c-shaped needle. He manages to pick it up despite the slippery skin sweating due to the exertion his body hasn’t gone through since the day he was locked in here. He bows his head to take the needle between his lips now, determined to pick the damn keyhole of the chains binding his wrists.

Although he is failing tremendously, he keeps on trying, again and again, fed up with the fact that his glenoids are sore to the core. Besides, with all these triggers–from malnutrition to stress, to being threatened every single day–why isn’t he seizing already? He puts all his motions on hold to think about this for a precious moment, why hasn’t he seized lately?

 

He resumes picking the lock, and in unpredicted, glorious moment, he hears the muffled click of the lock and then it comes undone. He frees his hand and takes the needle from his lips to try to open the other. It’s quicker with five digits, so it’s unlocked in a few seconds.

With the needle in hand, he scrambles onto legs that almost buckle under him at the surge of adrenaline. He won’t think. He won’t employ strategies or connect dots. This time, he’s going to act. He shoots to the door and elates when it opens. He finds that he is still in the same hallway, so he trudges stealthily towards the room of his friend, inwardly praying he didn’t get moved from it to some other ward. He finally reaches the door and uses the needle to open it. He peeks inside and finds Scott perched on a brown chesterfield, wearing another pair of shorts and plain T. He dashes to him, and Scott’s expression lightens upon seeing him. He springs up with open arms, and Stiles hugs him.

“We need to leave now,” he urges, “before they find out we’re missing.”

Scott nods affirmatively, picks out a long bathrobe and flings it to Stiles, who wears it over his boxers. “Let’s get outta this hellhole.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The rush of the adrenaline is making his limbs jerky like an addict’s short of his drug of choice as he and Scott scuttle on tiptoes between the labyrinths of hallways. Stiles has made sure he locked Scott’s door before embarking on the stealth run. And as they crouch behind a wall, peaking at what resides behind it, he can see his friend from the corner of his eyes examining him with such an intensity that he’d picked up on without actually having to see him. He knows what’s spinning in that observant head of Scott’s. Well, he was there when that monster fucked him unconscious and he heard the noises he made. Stiles can’t really tell how much of that has really traumatized his friend the most but he is betting on the whole frigging part. But right now they don’t have time for the side glances and the worry eyes, they’ve taken a bold decision and if they’re found out, it’s not going to be pretty.

There’s a woman in a white lab coat, Jennifer. Stiles still remembers the bitch. She is talking with someone on a flip phone, and she seems too immersed in the conversation she doesn’t notice the two childhood friends behind the wall.

“We gotta find those stairs.” Scott urges fervently, owlish eyes bugging out.

“Stairs?” he echoes.

“You were too out of it, so you don’t remember,” he explains, pupils never leaving the woman’s back. “When they brought us here, they led us down some stairs; we were blindfolded, so we never knew where we were headed.”

“By ‘we’ you mean you and Allison,” Stiles prompts. “Right?”

“You were hauled downstairs by someone too,” He steals a quick glance at him before ushering at the woman with his head. “Do we rip her a new one or look for another way?”

Stiles looks back at Jennifer. “We don’t wanna attract attention,” he tells him. “Derek is usually busy at this time of the day, and Peter must be getting ready to come down to my room. He’ll find I’m not there, and we’ll get caught up in stuff we don’t want,” he says. “Let’s look for another way.”

Scott’s breath hitches slightly, and Stiles hears it.

“What is it?” he demands.

“So that bastard has been coming to your room every day?” He staggers, his voice a crack. “You mean to tell me you’ve been enduring the same thing ever since we were brought here?”

Stiles presses his lips curtly before he holds his friend’s arm by the elbow. “We don’t have time for this,” He enunciates. “Did you hear any words I just said? The butler must be heading to my room by now.”

The weirdest thing about this place, beside the dungeon and locking people in to revel in their pain, there are no CCTV cameras around, not even one, which is odd considering that many things could go wrong. Just take their breakout for example. Yet Derek never thought it up this through. Makes you wonder if it’s a blunder or Derek planned it out to be like this from the get-go. But as far as Stiles is concerned, he just wants a way out, and no cameras mean no one is watching. No one is watching means he and his friend can run for it without having to worry about any of Derek’s men breathing down their neck.

Scott suddenly halts dead mid-step and Stiles bumps into his back; he looks where the other is looking and finds an EXIT neon sign mounted on a white-wooded door.

“That’s got to be it.” Scott muttered with his legs already carrying him towards the direction of the door.

Stiles rejoices for a second because that’s the freaking door to their freedom. He frowns; something isn’t right. Something is definitely not right about all this because why would Derek put a ‘freedom’ sign on that door that would attract any runaway like a bacon, unless it’s a…

“Scott, wait!” With panic tilting his voice, he called out for his friend whose hand is on the knob. “Don’t open that door!”

But Scott’s hand is already twisting the knob and perking his ears up at the slow creak of the door in the somehow poignant silence. Stiles can’t move away from his spot, too scared and too anxious. His entire body is tense, ready for what might come. Scott’s eyes follow what’s inside because Stiles can’t see it from his angle, and he watches with a scowl how his friend’s face lightens up with a wide smile. Maybe Stiles was wrong after all; maybe that door wasn’t a trap to ensnare them. But his relief was curtailed when this young man ducked out from the door, dimples pronounced and pupils so dark. Now he understands why Scott smiled so affectionately like that; it’s because the young man is their friend Isaac, the young man who went back with Boyd to get help but was never heard from after. Until now it seems.

“Isaac!” Scott throws himself into the taller man’s arms, tears welling up and soon rolling down his cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re alive! I’m so happy!”

The way Isaac cups the back of his head in false reassurance is too unsettling for Stiles not to consider, and then he eyes Isaac casual, clean clothes and clean hair. He doesn’t know if being sealed away in that room enhanced his ability to sniff out the evil but a part of him knows Isaac isn’t what he seems to be. He doesn’t know how he knows that or how he even concluded to that, he just knows it in his bones. He quirks a smile, trying to play Isaac into believing he was coming up to him for the same thing Scott went for, but when he reaches them, he shoves Isaac off and pulls a vexed Scott through that door, clambers frantically up the stairs he must have talked about earlier.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” he berates, “why did you do that! That’s Isaac! He’s alive and kicking,” he squirms to yank his hand from Stiles. “We should go back and get him!”

Stiles doesn’t stop in his track as he finally finds another door and shoots through it with his friend half scurrying half dragged. The scent of bleach collides with their noses, especially Stiles that has scented nothing lately but the coppery twinge of his blood and bitter smell of ejaculate. This side of this mansion, house, whatever it is, is pumping with life. There are more people in this place that looks like the interior of some treatment center, normal citizens who don’t seem interested in them and aren’t crouching with machetes or bows to hurt them. Scott is silent too as he inspects the place, but then he feels Stiles walking again, still dragging him. Stiles knows Isaac will trail them down, and he doesn’t know why but he doesn’t want to be found by him. He takes the left turn and comes to a stop, Scott bouncing back and forth with the impact. He peers up at his friend with reproach, but his words are lost from him when he sees the pallor of Stiles face turning dangerously paler. His eyes and lips parting impossibly wide, and if Scott didn’t know better, he’d have thought that was terror in his eyes. When he looks at what he is looking at, he is certain that that’s terror in Stiles eyes.

Derek Hale, the man he saw beating his friend to a pulp back in the woods and get an erection from Stiles seizure is standing right in front of them in an open lab coat and two file folders in a hand, the other is in his pocket. He is cocking his head at their clothing with his brows crinkling.

The two friends freeze in the same spot, unable to move or even twitch.

Scott, for a brief moment, hears his friend’s breathing slowly getting out of control and his grip on his arm tightens so much he  _almost_ winces; the fact that he can’t move his eyes from Derek aborts it.

Derek takes a step towards them and the friends flinch but do not budge. When he is finally standing a stride-length away, he parts his lips to talk. Scott is sure that his friend is following every movement with intensity shouting from every fiber in him.

“Who are you?” Derek asked, confusion whirling in his eyes. “Are you patients at this clinic?”

Stiles breathing is a joke by now, and Scott wonders if his lungs are about to explode.

Derek shifts on his feet. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look alright,” he tells Stiles, a crease building over one of his brows as he furrows it. “If you want, you can check yourself in?”

They hear the sudden rumbling of a distant door shutting, several pairs of feet stomping and screeching on the tiled floor before they hear ‘we need to find them’ gritted out in a finite order. Scott faces the source of the noise knowing Stiles can’t  _–won’t_ take his eyes off Derek’s for whatever it is because the biggest threat is standing in the flesh right before him. He sees Isaac coming towards them, and he yelps with tears in his eyes; for the first time, he can see the wickedness in Isaac’s eyes who’s tracking them like a predator.

Derek looks away from Stiles and at the one coming at them, and he lifts a hand to stop Isaac probably but sees from the corner of his eyes how Stiles flinches, so he stills.

“What’s going on here?” he demands once Isaac is standing before them. “What’s all this about?”

“Derek…” Stiles voice croaks out while his eyes tremble upon a tiny smidgen of something dry on the floor. He guesses it’s plaster; he has no idea why it’s on the floor though, not that it matters, right? Because… because Derek is standing right in front of him, elatedness is taking precedence over the daunting air he usually emanates whenever he is standing above Stiles, inflicting pain or employing torture on him. “You fucking bastard,” he grits out, “stop pretending!”

Derek’s confusion deepens as he takes his hand out of his pocket and straightens up a little, “Look, there’s no need for you to get upset at me for no apparent reason. I’m not trying to harm you. Whatever happened with my staff member over there, you can trust me when I say I have no idea what’s going on here.”

Stiles shakes his head, his legs taking him rearward to the wall behind. “No…” he whines disbelievingly, “this can’t be…” Was it all a dream? Was it all just a bad dream and now he has finally woken up and has to find his way out of it, or just what, exactly? “This isn’t happening…”

“Sir?” Derek approaches him a little but Scott steps in between them.

“Keep your filthy hands off my friend, you monster.” He bites out like a wounded animal.

“Young man,” Derek lifts placating hands, folders going up as well. “I mean him no harm.” He says, “I’m a doctor here, so maybe I can help. He doesn’t seem alright.”

Just then, Stiles clutches at his head from both sides and lets out a rumbling scream that echoes off in the hall and startles everyone within earshot, including Derek and Scott who are the nearest. Scott swivels around and fixates his friend with a terrified gaze, coerced into silence as Stiles slides down to his knees, hands still clutching at his head as he lets out broken wails now. Scott almost looks over the glaring inconstancy of his friend falling to his knees and shouting himself hoarse in favor of ripping into Derek for the time he witnessed him maltreating his friend and for all the times he didn’t but still knows happened. But the broken wailing is slowly morphing into snivels, and Scott can’t take it anymore, but just as he finally decides on bringing his friend to his chest to shower him with some warmth, Derek beats him to it. He watches with awe how Derek wraps his arms around Stiles and whispers soft reassurances into his ear.

 

“Nebula!”

Scott faces the source of the shout and finds the woman they saw downstairs dashing towards them. Then he hears it, the words uttered, irrevocable and derogatory in their brunt. He cannot snatch them, alter them or change them after they land harshly on Stiles ears.

“Were you trying to run away from me, Stiles?” the smoky voice asks, acidly. “You fucking whore, you never learn.”

Scott quickly reels his head towards Derek, who is still hugging Stiles, speaking those words into his ear. And the most unbelievable thing is… Stiles stills completely between those caging arms.

“Don’t touch him,” Scott clenches his small fists. Then he is a little surprised when Isaac comes up behind him and holds him from both shoulders. “What’ you doing? Let go!”

Derek lets out a bitter sigh after eyeing the patients peering at them from every side. “They’re making a scene,” he says, gesturing to the two friends. “Let’s take them back downstairs first,” he glowers at his secretary and Isaac with eyes that send them to a cold sweat. “I’ll deal with all of you later.”

 

***

 

The two childhood friends are shepherded back downstairs by Isaac and Derek to the same hole they finally managed to crawl out of. Jennifer has excused herself before disappearing into another room and leaving the two men to their fun. Scott is momentarily threshing under the pressure Isaac is applying on his shoulders as he clasps him tight. When he glances over at his friend, he finds Derek guiding him, pushing him by the neck and Stiles uncooperative body backlashes every single rough time. They walk them through the door Isaac came out from and towards another under Derek’s order and watchful eyes.

“Stiles,” Derek coaxes after they stop by that foreign door. “Hey,” he taps Stiles cheek to ground him, “snap out of it.”

Stiles glossy pupils roll and finally land on Derek’s, and at the sight of evil eyes looking back at him, something in Stiles awakes to full alertness. He hisses his way to consciousness and hardens his glare at the man.

Derek smiles wickedly. “That’s more like it.”

“Isaac, what the hell are you doing?” Scott reproaches, “Why are you doing this?”

Derek and Stiles look to the other two’s direction, and Derek chirps. “Oh, let me introduce you” he starts, “that’s Isaac Lahey, a ‘trainee’ signed under my care.” He says, now wrapping an arm around Stiles neck and relishing the sensation of his shudder coursing nonstop. “He’s been working here for two years now.”

Scott pales and his big eyes glare at the friend who betrayed them. “What’s the meaning of this!”

“Oh, and he’s even been assigned to a job too,” Derek gushes on, ushering to the foreign door.

Isaac opens it at the gestured order, and keeps his grip strong on Scott’s forearm.

“Let’s take a look inside, shall we?” Derek suggests with an odd air of glee about him.

Again, merry moods indicate trouble.

Isaac and Scott step into the room first with Derek and Stiles following. Stiles, in next to no time, faints to the back and flops on Derek’s chest, the man who proves to have a little grace in him as he holds Stiles up by the shoulders with his two hands. Scott is soon doubling over and retching onto the cemented floor.

Inside the room, they find Allison’s collapsed body hung on meat-hooks, covered in wounds, scratches and belt welts. Cascaded by fresh and dry blood. The entire room smells of death, and no amount of bleach can mask that.

“Get a grip,” Derek coaches, lifting Stiles up. “He’s still alive,” He provides, and added. “I think.”

Just then, Peter walks into the room and takes hold of Scott as Isaac is ushered to step aside by Derek himself. The order, though, doesn’t stop there. Isaac walks up to where Allison’s body is mounted, and he unhooks her from the wall and drops her down. They all watch as the wounded body falls lifelessly onto the cemented floor.

“Listen up,” Derek starts, the two friends’ stomachs churn, and they whip their heads to the psychotic man, “I can let Scott walk outta that door free as a bird.”

Stiles releases himself from Derek’s hold but, really, it’s only because the man lets him. “What’ you mean?”

“Exactly what you heard” Derek replies, now stuffing his side pockets with his hands. “I’m willing to let him go, but on one condition.” And as everyone anticipates, but Stiles with more anxiety than hopefulness –because he knows what trusting Derek’s words would do to him, said man drops the bomb. “Stiles has to stay.”

“I refuse!” Scott interjects, doggedly.

“I wasn’t asking you.” Derek rolls his eyes at him in response.

Deciphering his meaning now, everyone’s, including Scott’s, of course, gazes aim Stiles.

“Why should I trust anything you say?” Stiles demands, “How can I know for sure that this isn’t some other game of yours where you lead me on and then turn it into a game?”

“I told you I kept him unscathed,” Derek shrugs, “He can now walk free with no scratch, but of course, if he tries something, my men will soon be on him. Your lovely ear might get parceled to his place too, or maybe an eye?”

“You bastard!” Scott tries to shoot towards Derek, but Peter’s hold on him is ridiculously stronger.

“I suggest you keep quiet if you want us to get to an agreement here,” Derek warns him, playfully, “after all, I am doing this for you.”

If Scott does walk out of this place free and unscratched, then Stiles efforts to bear with the humiliation so far wasn’t for nothing. Derek won’t have his trump card to lay it out in play every time he tries to get his way into Stiles pants. Although it sounds too selfless of Derek to do this so out of the blue, of course, he can’t be doing it out of the goodness of his heart so it means he has something else up his sleeves. But Stiles can deal with one thing at a time, and he is not going to waste a chance like this. He isn’t that stupid.

“Fine,” Stiles grits out, “I’ll stay.”

“Stiles, you idiot!” Scott cries, sobbingly. “I don’t want to go and leave you here!”

It’s going to pierce his heart for a few days, but Scott is smart. He’ll figure out how to adapt pretty soon, and Stiles places his utmost trust in him. And it’s sad to see him like this, and he can’t even imagine what his parents could be going through right now. So if one of the children is back sound and safe, unlike so many, Scott parents’ grief may diminish bit by bit, and that’s all Stiles cares about. Damn it, he misses his parents.

“Listen here, Scott,” Stiles voice is steady and hopeful, but his eyes are on the floor, downcast and foggy. “I want you to graduate. I want you to get a job and meet someone, and I want you to have lots of kids.”

Scott wails a ‘no, please, stop’.

“But forget about me,” his voice almost cracks at that, “forget you ever had a childhood friend, please. I’m asking you, Scott, live your life and make me proud.”

“Oh, that was so beautiful,” Derek scoffs, wiping an eye, “I even shed a tear.”

Stiles glowers at him.

Derek smirks at him.

“Should we take our leave now?” Peter inquires.

“Take him out of here,” Derek waves off a hand, “and make sure he doesn’t forget the terms of our agreement.”

Peter pulls a devastated Scott from there, and Stiles watches with a pair of hurt eyes the image of his friend because that’s the last he is going to see of him. It’s alright, a little price to pay for something so overwhelmingly big. Scott deserves to live happily, actually all of his friends did but that doesn’t fall under the same heading now that most of them are either blown off, decapitated or beheaded, or –he glances over at Allison’s almost unrecognizable face–  _that_.

“Now,” Derek lets out a heavy sigh, taking his hands out of his pockets to wrap them over his chest defensively. “Should we wake Allison up? I kind of don’t want her to miss the party again, not after you went through the trouble to come all the way here to pay her a visit” –he flashes an eerie smile now to Stiles direction– “I also want to confide something in her.”

At that, Isaac resumes the work of slapping Allison’s face a few times until the girl beneath squirms and groans ashore. Her eyes slowly start to open, beholding the assaulter standing atop her. Beyond him, two men she comes to recognize after another inspection by her bruised eyes.

“Stiles …” She croaks out, trying to sit up but her body is too sore and all she manages to do is sit hunched. “Y-you’re alive!”

Stiles wishes he wasn’t.

“Let’s skip that, shall we?” Derek states, begrudgingly. “Now,” he walks up to Allison and grasps a fistful of her hair to yank it, forcing her to look up. He has the utter gall to look apologetic. “Allison, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Stiles scowls at the maniac.

“You see Stiles over there,” he flicked his wrist to motion at the direction of the man. “He made a bet on your life, yours for his childhood friend’s.”

“What?” Stiles exclaims.

“What,” Derek lifts his chin, openly challenging. “Are you going to deny the fact that you’ve never asked how Allison was holding up if she was dead or alive?” he asks. “Didn’t you and your friend try to jailbreak just half an hour ago, didn’t care if Allison was left behind?”

This man, just what is he, a snake in disguise?

Just what the hell is he made of?

“That’s…” Stiles words fail him.

“Allison,” Derek speaks again, “Scott was allowed to leave, in exchange for your life.”

“No, that’s not true!” Stiles denies, vehemently. “You’re full of shit!”

“Quiet, Stiles,” Derek’s movements are slow as he shushes the other with a finger on his lips, “I’m talking now.”

Stiles gulps down his retort.

“So I was saying,” Derek resumes after looking away from Stiles eyes with a smirk plastered on his lips. “Scott is free now thanks to your sacrifice. He’s outside these walls. I’m serious, ask Stiles.”

The two look up at the man, and all he does is shake his head dazedly. “Y-you’re…” he almost falters but, thankfully, his anger pulses again. “You’re not just evil, Hale.” He says, “You’re the devil himself.”

“So are you going to deny that I let your friend walk out?!” Derek barks until everyone flinches.

“No, but it was on no one’s expense but mine!” Stiles counters, tenaciously.

Derek dips his chin now for a daunting moment before he barks a laugh. He lifts up to his feet, thrusts his hands into his pockets and lets out a little sigh. “Your adherence to decorum is quite a joke, Stiles.” He bites out, “perhaps you’re yearning for that whip again.”

Stiles quickly shakes his head, “I’m…” he starts, but Derek’s raised hand forestalls whatever he wanted to say.

“Save it.” He says, he uses that lifted hand to motion to Isaac. “Gimme your knife.”

Stiles fists his hands and holds his ground, eyes wide and wary. But Derek simply puts the knife in Allison’s hand and withdraws from the girl’s space, leisurely. Allison weighs the knife in her hand like it’s an item she’s never seen in her life until now, and then she looks up at Stiles who is shaking his head at her, willing her to at least doubt what the killer has told her. Then she tries to stand on his aching legs.

“Allison…” Stiles voice is faint by now, “don’t trust a word he says.”

“Quit whining, Stiles,” Derek breathes out, dismally. “Take it like a man.”

Easy for you to say when nobody’s aiming a knife at your guts. Stiles hasn’t forgotten how to fight in close combats and, although Derek did take him out in no time really, he can still take out someone with Allison’s body shape. He can even make use of the girl’s unstable physical state. But even if it’s looking up to his side he still doesn’t want to fight Allison over something so worthless like Derek’s misguided advice.

“Allison, you have to believe me!” Stiles tries again despite Derek’s warning. “Why am I here then? If what he’s saying is the truth, then explain to me why I’m still here!”

“Easy,” Derek answers for him, “because the deal was one person.”

Stiles blows out a weary sigh, “It’s not true!” he whines, “Allison, he just wants to see us fight, that’s all. It’s true Scott left, but the only deal I made with him was me staying behind.” He reasons, “I’m not making any of this up. Please, you have to believe me!”

And Allison, as though in a trance, slowly drops the knife.

Derek chuckles, and the vibrating tone attracts everyone’s attention. Derek doubles over and lets out a loud laugh. His shoulders rocking, and it’s the first time Stiles actually sees the maniac expressing his demented amusement like a run-of-the-mill villain. “I’m sorry,” he says, now straightening up, “it’s just… this is so fucking boring. I just thought of another idea, and I must say, it makes me quite happy.”

Stiles and Allison shudder visibly when Derek flashes a smirk.

“Okay, enough games,” he says, “Stiles, there’s something you need to know.”

Stiles is too scared to even twitch a brow as he stands still at his spot.

“Isaac there,” he nods at the young man who perks up at his name being mentioned, “He’s the one who set you up.” He confesses, “He’s the reason all your friends are dead.”

“Sire,” Isaac speaks for the first time, “what’s the meaning of this?”

Stiles eyes settle on Isaac, rage and fury roving inside him like waves crashing on rocks.

Derek silences him so he can speak. “You think the car trip was Frank’s idea? Not a chance. That guy was too stupid to come up with something like that. It was our Isaac here all along –he planned it out from the get-go.”

Stiles –and he’s pretty sure even Allison’s breathing is labored by now.

“He brought you guys to your doom.” His voice is harsh, resonating between these walls like the absolute voice of reason. “It’s his fault, all of it!” he is yelling fiercely by the end of it.

Stiles shoots towards the knife Allison dropped and seizes it in his own hand. Allison shouts a desperate ‘no, don’t!’ as she watches with horror how Stiles leaps to Isaac’s direction, the knife coming down with him and aiming Isaac’s heart.

He’s going to pierce it… by God, he’s going to finish off the bastard who set them up. Stiles rage multiplies… the bastard who killed so many people and robbed them of their youth; who caged him here, brought him down to his knees, begging…

Isaac stands stupefied before the knife as it comes down with such speed and then it soon pierces something: flesh, Stiles can tell. The scent of fresh blood, sickening and never easy to get used to, permeates the air. Stiles parts his eyes when he hears the pained groan, and what he sees does not really bring him even a scrape close to vengeance.

Allison is standing between him and Isaac, barely. Stiles feels the girl’s faint breath falling on his lips, their faces before each other’s. Stiles sobs, tearlessly.

“W-what… you…” he chastises, his eyes quivering into Allison’s kind, doleful ones.

Allison coughs, and blood soon comes out of her small mouth splashing in torrents. And then she shakes his head, jadedly. “Don’t.” She utters, “Stiles, you’re… different.”

“No, no, no…” Stiles whimpers as he slowly lets go of the knife that is still planted into Allison’s chest. He brings his blood-spattered hands to both of Allison’s shoulder as the latter starts to teeter and hover over. He holds her still. “Allison, no –Oh God what have I done?”

“Not you,” Allison states, vehemently. “You… are different.”

“Allison, I just tried to kill the other bastard over there.” He cries, and tears slowly escape his eyes when Allison rests her forehead on Stiles. “How am I so different? I just stabbed you –oh God! What should I do?”

Allison’s knees buckle, and she is soon falling to the floor on her back. Stiles is falling along with her.

“Stiles,” she blurts out through the coughs and the blood-plugged gullet. “Don’t fall.”

Stiles uses the angle of their position to staunch the blood with his two hands. “I’m so sorry, Allison, I’m so fucking sorry!”

Allison, then, quirks a very wide smile and it momentarily takes Stiles to a warm and safe place. And very slowly, Allison become stills completely with her eyes on the ceiling.

“Allison?” Stiles whisper croaks, “Allison, don’t you dare, okay? I’m gonna stop the bleeding, just want you to stay focused for me, you get that?”

But Allison slowly closes her eyes, and she never opens them again.

Stiles eyes flutter aimlessly. He looks over Allison’s face, her body and then back to her strangely peaceful face. His pressure on the wound slowly eases as he retracts his hands back to him, shaking.

A clap, two more, and then a third before Derek cuts the silence. “Beautiful, very beautiful, Stiles,” he vouches with false amusement, “that was Oscar-worthy.”

Stiles still-trembling eyes scan his hands, too red, too sinful…

“You know what a coup de grace is, Stiles?” Derek wonders, “It’s a merciful death blow, and you’ve administered that professionally, bravo.”

Stiles awareness comes back to him, but flawed. He looks up at Derek who cocks his head and awaits the oncoming verbal assault. Stiles manages to lever up to his feet, still a little wobbly after the rapid drain of adrenaline. “You think this is funny?” he chides, “A girl has just died! A girl you’d have saved, you sick son of a bitch!”

“I didn’t stab her.” Derek shrugs on a mock-pout, “you did.”

“I hate you.” Stiles grits out, acidly. “You’re sick, you’re disgusting, and I fucking hate you.”

Derek’s blasé demeanor morphs into something vague. Something that consists of furrowed eyebrows, doleful eyes and pained expression. And Stiles can’t believe it. “You…” Derek gulps, “you don’t mean that.”

“I hate you!” Stiles shouts until his voice cracks.

There was a table lined for all these people who engrossed themselves with torturing Allison, Derek knocks it over, letting go of a raged scream. He kicks the metallic items clanging on the floor and working on fueling his animalistic anger. Stiles is watching only, too scared even to twitch. Isaac then decides to appease to the man vibrating with stirring wrath, but it’s too much of a wrong move as Derek gets a hold of a scattered circumcision knife and plunges it into the young man’s left eye, rotates it deeper the more Isaac struggles. Isaac crumbles to the ground in a dead-weight heap.

“You hate me?” Derek goads on with his velvety voice as he slowly reels around facing Stiles. “I guess it’s to be expected from an ungrateful whore like you. I mean” –he approaches Stiles impuissant body now– “some men can’t help but chase the bitch.” –he grabs hold of Stiles hair and starts dragging him somewhere else as the other winces and whimpers but does nothing to fight his way out of the other’s hold, before he suddenly pauses, not much of his face can be seen from Stiles angle– “I love you” he says, before he starts dragging Stiles along the hallway again, his voice rising up again in clear admonishment. “I fucking love you, and you’ll never find someone who loves you as much as I do!”

“Just end it,” Stiles sobs, the bathrobe has fallen off his shoulders. “End it here and now, Derek, or I will.”

Derek then pauses in his tracks again, and this time, he gives Stiles head a hefty shove as he throws him against the wall until Stiles crashes against it violently and slides down with a groan. Derek is soon onto him, topping him and bringing down a punch after another, to Stiles cheek, jaw, head, chest, Stiles only need to name it.

 

After Stiles wakes up, he finds that many things are not as they seem because, what he thought was his older room turned out to be a bathroom of a sort. He is now reclining inside a claw tub, empty of any water. He is tied, both wrists strapped by a zip tie before his chest. And his face, oh Lord in heavens, when is he ever going to rid of the feeling of his face sore and beaten. Worse of all, Derek is keeping watch beside the bathtub, taunting eyes looking down on Stiles. The later, on his part, tries to scramble out of the tub because his legs aren’t tied, but every attempt fails immensely and all Stiles left to do is watch with awe how his legs buckle under him. It must be some sort of a nerve drug or something or else what could explain such a thing, and Derek is a neurologist so getting his hands on something like this –something that paralyzes you from the waist down, is highly likely.

“Let me go!” He demands, caustically. “You can’t do this to me!”

Derek turns deaf ears to Stiles wretched biddings with that infamous poker face of his and swivels towards the direction of stacked gallons on the right side of the bathroom. He unscrews the cap of the first gallon his hand falls on, and he brings it to the bathtub, pouring its content all over Stiles legs.

Stiles eyes widen at the realization that what’s been poured on him is blood, still warm.

After Derek empties the first gallon and tosses it aside, he smirks very deeply. “Smells nice, doesn’t it?”

Stiles entire body shudders, and he starts recoiling from everything.

Derek brings a second, pours its content into the tub. And another, and then another and all Stiles can do is watch as the blood reaches his middle before he loses his ground and is soon degenerated to a mess.

“Don’t do this,” he sobs, “I’ll be good, please, don’t do this to me.”

The blood level is soon reaching his nose, and Stiles can’t keep his mouth and nose above it since his legs have turned jelly without his constant. And by the last gallon tossed, Derek crouches beside the tub and fists Stiles hair, bringing it a little up so Stiles can breathe.

“You promised me that before,” he says, a sly smirk on his lips, “you promised me to be good and I trusted you.” At that, his smirk falls and, with a pair of empty eyes beholding his handiwork. Derek plunges Stiles head into the blood, forcing it under as the other resists, looking as though he wants Stiles to drown to his death but he soon brings it up again.

Stiles gasps and coughs.

“How does your friends’ blood taste like?” Asking so, Derek forces the other’s head under the blood again, and Stiles squirms to break from the suffocating pressure, but to no avail.

When Derek looks like he is done playing, he repositions Stiles so that he is lying with his arms outside the tub and armpits bracing on its rim. He is kneeling, his ass peeking out of the blood and Derek fondles it –slippery touch makes Stiles hiss. Derek stands from his crouch and gets into the bathtub, unzips his fly and immobilizes Stiles by the hips. And very slowly, he pushes the head of his cock into Stiles entrance, and he stops when Stiles winces audibly only to push all the way in, luxuriating in the impossible feeling of tightness stretching around him. He pounds hard in his tight hole with faint groans and moans from his part, loud sobbing from Stiles.

And then, he fucks Stiles ass senseless.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

“Rough…” Stiles murmurs with strain. He is crouching on four over the memory foam. The next time he tries to speak through his staggered moans, a querulous cry escapes through his parted lips. “So rough.”

Derek endorses in the absolutely titillating sensation, taking no notice in Stiles’ tribulation of being brought to his knees, bearing his ass to a man who has no qualms giving him a 4-inches rectal fissure. He doesn’t stop, he never stops. Once he gets his hips working, Derek doesn’t stop until he ejaculates. Sometimes when he is in a good mood, he even fucks the cum out of Stiles until the latter is reduced down to nothing but a loud moaning mess.

When Derek finally pulls his cock out, the assaulted hole gapes in slight twitching. There’s a long trail of cum that connects the hole to the crown of Derek’s cock, and the psycho smirks.

 

This is how Stiles’ been spending his days ever since his friend left.

 

For one, he knows that as long as he stays locked behind these four walls, his future will remain obfuscated. But on the contrary, his friend can walk free under the sky. This is not something he’s been jonesing for: getting raped every day is not exactly a wish to write on a graduation car. But then again, if his friend is alive and well, and safe and sound at home with his parents, then he can put up with it. That is if he doesn’t eventually go out of his mind.

“Stiles,” Derek’s deep voice calls out, softly.

As though on auto mode, Stiles sits up and turns around, gazes emptily at Derek’s slick cock for a moment.

“Come on,” Derek coons, “you know the drill, Stiles. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Stiles flinches slightly at the revolting reminder. Really, cleaning Derek off with his mouth... is that how he’s going to spend his life?

“You know what,” Derek tilts his head a little, eyes narrowing with apparent incredulity. “I think you’re stalling on purpose. In fact, I think you want me to hurt you.” He concludes. “Or else why the hell would you keep up the same attitude when I’ve beat it into you and told you countless times that I hate it when you keep me waiting.”

Stiles shakes his head unobtrusively, gaze softening. “I’ll do it.”

“Well,” Derek intones, “get on it.”

Stiles gulps his lump and ducks down, mouth hovering over Derek’s cock. Small, curled lips that are grazed with a cut from the other day’s beating. He can’t remember when because after his friend left, Derek’s been even more violent towards Stiles who, usually, receives the beating for rejecting something Derek asks him to do. But what little defiance Stiles shows, Derek burns it to a scrap. His mouth opens around the meaty head oozing precum and very slowly take the hard cock in. He takes it all in, and then he pulls back to tongue the head with abandon, repeating the process all over again, and again, managing to pull contented sighs from Derek’s mouth. Stiles is keeping his bobbing movement on the cock very gentle in part to not agitate the cut on his lips, and to get Derek’s mind off of him.

“You’re really good at this,” Derek admires through his tunneled vision, a sense of pleasure washing over him, “a fucking natural.”

Stiles hums on the cock, knowing the vibration will do something to Derek. He likes it.

Derek gasps a little and shuffles to settles on his knees. He brings his hands to Stiles’ hair as the latter doesn’t break the connection between the cock and his mouth. Then Derek snaps his hips. “You’re a relict, Stiles.” He tells him when Stiles’ entire demeanor becomes taut. “You can take this.”

To his horror, Stiles feels Derek thrusting into his mouth, and then cold fingers parting his wounded lips wider to let more access to the thick cock. This isn’t the first time Derek does something so out of the blue like this, nor it is the second, or the third. What makes this time different from the others is actually the cut on Stiles’ cut that could reopen. Adding to that is a cock pushing into the back of his throat... the pain is not even in the range of bad, it’s beyond it. Derek rocks his hips back and forth, relishing the feeling with an expression of pure ecstasy on his face.

The more Stiles tries to pull his head off, the tighter the hold on his head becomes. The suffocating feeling is a lot worse than the rough stretching of his unprepared anus, and he feels death at the threshold of his floating consciousness. Does he want to let her in?

Hot cum suddenly shoots to the back of his throat, immediately clogging it. Respiration becomes futile because Derek is still not taking his cock out. Stiles’ eye pupils roll to the back, and he slumps down. The cock still tucked between his lips as cum spills down the corners of his mouth.

 

Peter is here again, like always. He’s here to clean after Derek’s mess.

Stiles used to recoil, flinch and curse every time Peter’s fingertips as much as brushed against his skin. Now, he doesn’t even stir as the man scrubs his long legs with a damp cloth. Usually, Peter is rather brisk in his movements, but today… today he is rather gentle. The touch of a mother, of a lover, something Stiles’ been craving for ever since Derek tethered him here like a wild animal.

“You’re something,” Stiles mumbles, voice weak and almost comes off so faint. “No matter what kind of mess Derek leaves behind, you’re always there to clean it up.”

“It’s what I’m getting paid to do,” Peter replies, robotically.

Stiles tilts his head slightly. “So if I pay you, would you get me out of here?”

Peter’s hands stop at that, and his eyes slide up, landing on Stiles’.

“I’m saying I’m willing to pay,” Stiles urged. His hand tracking a long trail over his bruised torso, suggestively, teasingly…“I can read the way you look at me,” he sighs. “You want me.”

Peter’s brows tremble, and his Adam apple bobs.

“I’ll pay you, so get me out of here.” Stiles prompts again, his tone cold.

 

He often heard people say he took after his father, and Stiles isn’t about to argue that. He knows he is almost the spitting image of his father, and there’s even little pride when people point the resemblance out, because his father is a good man.

After the accident, Stiles’ father didn’t confiscate his car keys, didn’t take away his laptop, and didn’t ground him. Although Stiles could easily chalk it up to his epilepsy, something about the new glint in his father’s eyes and the way he looked at him with no reproach, suggested a myriad of reasons. From that point on, that’s the only thing that set Stiles on the right path.

So as he sits on this comfy sofa with his dad slouching back on the backrest next to him, watching the national team going for a penalty kick, he relishes the moment. For a reason, it feels ephemeral, for a reason, it feels like any moment and it’d be snatched away by some daunting power. And he doesn’t know. And although he can’t bring himself to tell his father about the fear festering in his chest, he eventually decides fear of loss is common. He looks up at his father’s profile, loving the peacefulness of the man’s endorsement, the aberrantly assorted moles spreading out his red neck and cheek, the curled lips and nose he got from him. He suddenly feels remorse.

Fear and remorse fusing together...

“I know,” His father says in his voice soft, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. “You’re getting used to it.”

Stiles’ brows tremble and his eyes narrow at his father.

“Scary, isn’t it?” His father says again. “Getting used to it.”

Stiles looks at the TV screen now, too.

“But Stiles,” he smiled. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because the team they’ve been rooting for has just scored or because of what he is about to tell him. “This darkness, it’s not perpetual.”

Stiles looks up again at his father, and this time his father looks back at him.

“We won.”

The front door rattles and Stiles’ eyes snap to it. His fear flares back to life again, more palpable with each rattle. He looks at his father whose face is slowly melting away, and he quickly recoils, hitting something solid and cold. He presses against it more, willing it to tip backward so he can flee away, but it’s still solid. Unbending, just like his new reality.

When the darkness gets swallowed by blinding light, Stiles trips back to the horrifying realization that his father, the couch, the homey house… all of that was just a dream.

“Stiles,” The maniacal doctor is standing at the downward frame of his mattress, lab coat over white turtleneck sweater, black trousers, and shiny loafers.

Stiles looks up at the man through bleary eyes, hating the look of triumph on his face.

“Were you planning to leave?” Derek asks, incredulous eyes peering down at his captive.

Stiles swallows thickly, shuffles to reposition himself on the solid wall he tried to press against earlier. Then he straightens his chained legs over the mattress, allowing them to feel the dried blood and cum against the skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter then appears into his peripheral vision, apathetic and silent, like he always is.

“Are you sure?” Derek drawls, playfully. “Because a little bird told me you wanted out.”

Stiles’ anxiety goes up a few notches. He glares at Peter for a moment. When the other looks elsewhere, Stiles looks back at Derek, defeated. “I’m…” he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“You even offered him your body as payment.” Derek’s eyes widen and his playful smirk tenses. Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out?”

Stiles quickly bows his head to Derek, “I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“Won’t, huh?” Derek glowers, “you fucking liar.”

Stiles winces.

“On your knees, bend over.” Derek orders, taking off his lab coat.

“Please… I’m sorry…” Stiles’ voice croaked, strained with tears. Of course, Peter wasn’t going to keep the little proposition to himself. Of course, he was going to let Derek in on it eventually. Stiles is a fucking idiot. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stiles,” Derek lets go of a bitter sigh. “Stop saying sorry, you bastard, and kneel.”

Stiles shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut until a dam of tears roll down his cheeks. “I’m... sorry.”

Derek seizes his captive by the hair, which has grown to his neck, and he tosses him towards the mattress until Stiles groans. His injuries protesting at the maltreatment.

“Hold his hands,” Derek growled, now straddling Stiles’ back since the latter is lying flat on his stomach. His face buried in the mattress.

Peter grabs hold of Stiles’ flailing hands and crosses them down before Stiles’ face, adding his own pressure on the limbs. Stiles hears rustling of the trousers on his skin, before a gentle hand lands on his bruised shoulder blades, pushing him more into the dirty mattress.

His heart rate grows frantic, and his breathing hitches when something cold and sharp sinks into the back of his left shoulder. “No, please,” He squirms. “Please, stop! Derek! Don’t do this. Please!”

“Whining and whining nonstop,” Derek gripes, jadedly. “You never learn, do you? How many times have I told you the pleading card never works for me... not anymore?” He tells him. “It would, if you never broke your promises. You always break them. I’m not about to play into the hands of a whore who doesn’t even appreciate the lengths I go to in order to keep you in.”

Stiles shakes his head, his tousled, ear-length hair whirls about his face, tingling his upper-arms. “Please don’t, stop…”

Derek breathes out an impatient sigh through his nose. “Hold him down.”

Soon, the cold sharpness returns to touch the fevered skin of his back, sinking deeper and tearing his skin. Stiles lets out one pained scream after another. The feeling of his skin getting torn by whatever sharp object Derek is using is… it’s like a touch of tormenting death. Oh God, would death feel better than this? Is he really better off slumped on the mattress and lifeless? Would Derek still torture him and rape him, even dead?

Another flick of Derek’s wrist as he scrapes into the skin to engrave it wills a scream from Stiles. Soon tears stream down his face, infiltrating into his mouth. The taste is salty, and so is the scent of his blood. By the time Derek lifts the sharp thing off, Stiles sags down, all his joints relaxing, yet still shuddering. The burning throb coming from his shoulder blades is still radiating like bad sunburn.

Peter finally releases Stiles’ arms and retreats away.

The gauze Peter wrapped around Stiles’ forearm before because of a burn scar Derek had left on him slowly comes off. The recent cuts reopened and are now bleeding. His arms are now covered in new hand marks that are sure to bruise for a while.

Stiles tenses again when Derek glides a hand towards his waist, lifting it off the mattress so that only his ass is in the air. Stiles’ fingers twitch but remain wilted next to his head.

“Inject him now,” Derek grits out.

Peter takes Stiles’ arm in his hand. The other fishes out a syringe from his pocket, and honestly, Stiles doesn’t even care at this point.

As the needle digs into the nook of Stiles’ elbow, a disquieting heat spreads out inside him. His body becomes hot. Oh God, too hot.

“It’s working,” Derek notes out as he hovers over Stiles’ back.

“What the hell” –Stiles moans, clenching his fists on the fabric and repositioning his legs, wanting to tear himself apart from his body– “did you give me?”

“It’s an aphrodisiac, Stiles,” He replies in a brash manner. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

Minutes later Stiles is not only feeling better, he is feeling heavenly.

His cock stands erect, his nipples perk up, and his tongue rolls off the drool. His entire body is covered in sweat, and the heat is growing unbearable, yet still tolerable.

Derek aligns his cock along Stiles’ rim, rubbing the crown against the puckered skin until Stiles keens.

“I… I don’t want this,” Stiles whimpers, clutching at the mattress until veins pop along his hand. “Please, Derek, make it stop.”

“Don’t want to,” Derek simply shrugs.

The tip of Derek’s cock slowly digs its way in, and Stiles sucks in a sharp gasp. Derek stills and Stiles lifts his hips off the mattress, chasing after the cock teasing his entrance. He doesn’t know why his body isn’t obeying him. He can’t even think right with the way he feels because this isn’t right.

“In…” he mumbles on a low moan.

“Hum? What was that again?” Derek feigns ignorance. “’Didn’t quite catch that.”

Stiles lifts a hand and places it on one of his ass cheeks, he spreads it open and mewls. “Stick it in deeper, you bastard.”

Derek licks his upper lip and settles on biting his tongue when it reaches the corner of his lips. He locks two vice-grips on both sides of Stiles’ hips before he thrusts his cock in.

Stiles’ hand falls before him again as he lets loose a pornographic moan. He props on his elbows and sinks both his hands into his hair, clutching it to try to keep his moans stifled in.

“But that’s no fun, Stiles” Derek whines, now grinding into Stiles’ G-spot. “I like your voice, let me hear it.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles sighs, “There, Derek, right there, fuck me harder.” His voice breaks right through his teeth into a litany of sexy moans, eliciting Derek and even making Peter hard under his pants. And judging by the size, it looks like any more, and he’d burst.

Derek brings his mouth to Stiles’ right ear, whispering sharply into it. “Look at him; he might as well cum in his pants just hearing you moan like a bitch in heat.” He says, snapping his hips more and causing Stiles a pleasurable shudder. “But you know what’d happen if he cums? You know what castration is, Stiles? You’re a smart guy. I’m pretty sure you have an idea what I’m talking about.”

If Derek is saying that if Peter climaxes he’ll get his dick removed, then Stiles is not really feeling intimidated.

“He ratted on me,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. “You can go ahead and mutilate him all you want. Heck, I’ll even lend a hand.”

Derek barks a laugh, now dropping his lips into Stiles’ neck. “You think I was intimidating you?”

Stiles falls silent, short for the moans that make their way out every now and then. “You weren’t?”

“No, you idiot,” He chuckles, now tonguing the carvings he made on Stiles’ back. “I was intimidating him.”

Stiles groans in agony beneath him.

“Well, Peter, you can feast your eyes.” He muttered, nibbling at the marks absentmindedly. “But he’s mine,” He said, “You hear me, Stiles You’re my toy to break, and mine to fix.”

Stiles shakes his head, his clutch growing tighter on his hair. He doesn’t know if someone out there is listening, but he begs, he begs to be saved, anyone. He just wants to be saved. He feels the last piece of his pride shatter. Soon ominous hands are on him, bringing darkness over him with their stealth-like smoke, dragging him down to a bottomless pit of nothingness. He knows now; he has reached the bottom of Derek Hale’s darkness.

Stiles’ stomach lurches in instant horror as a flash of the dark days he’s spent being Derek’s toy played in his head. “I’ll kill you…” He bites out, “remember this, Derek Hale.”

And soon, he shoots his load on the mattress.

 

“It’s hindering me,” Derek murmurs to himself as he fumbles with brown, unkempt hair. He is still straddling the back of a drained Stiles, playing with smooth strands.

The faintest of tremors reverberate across Stiles’ arms and back the longer Derek’s skin keeps brushing against his. Yet all he manages is a twitch. His side drapes one of his arms, and the other slumped next to his face. His eyelids are fluttering to a slit as a stray tear slides down the length of his nose.

“Bring me some scissors,” Derek commands, distractedly. “As much as I want you to grow out your hair,” this he tells Stiles as the other man bustles about in the room. “But it’s in the way.” This time, he fondles Stiles’ cheek and the latter flinches, only slightly though. It’s as if he’s seen the hand coming to make contact with his face, but he was still unable to rein in the reaction. A thumb is soon stroking the moles scattered over his cheek ever so gently; it almost coaxes Stiles to sleep. “You tried to buy your way out, Stiles” He starts, velvety voice talking in a whisper, “and I can’t overlook that. Otherwise, you’ll keep trying.”

Stiles shudders when the thumb presses against his temple. Pep talk, really? The fucker just raped him senseless. God, his back is throbbing so bad, just what the hell did Derek carve on his skin?

“I checked on your friend by the way,” he tells him, conversationally.

Stiles’ eyes snap open, more focused as the irises tremble.

“He’s doing well. Your entire family is, too.” Derek provides and adds as an afterthought. “Better than you actually.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better. How?” Stiles grits out, his voice raspy and a little scratchy.

“Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” Derek offers, “just name it.”

“I want to go home.” Stiles cries.

Derek leans into the hollow of Stiles’ neck, caressing in the lightest brush of his lips. “This _is_ your home.”

“If you’re not going to give me what I want then why are you wasting our time with idle chatter,” Stiles retaliates, “If you want to bribe me into staying, I want nothing from a monster like you.”

Derek’s jaw hinges down, lips pursing and brows furrowing. “Is that so?”

“It is so,” Stiles replied.

Peter finally makes his way towards the mattress, handing the scissors to Derek.

“You call me a monster, but you’re the one who killed his friend.” Derek muses, now straightening up atop a shocked Stiles and slowly sinking his fingers into the hair again.

“I didn’t.” Stiles insists, the veins along his temples popping.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Derek drawls, holding a lock of Stiles’ hair to cut it. “You rammed that knife right into her heart, and you didn’t even bat an eye.”

The clipping of metal resonates like a vivid reminder of that day… the day he stabbed Allison to death.

Stiles shakes his head and wails again. Oh God, he didn’t mean to.

“Careful there,” Derek sing-songs, now holding another lock of Stiles’ hair, “I might gouge a hole in your head or something.”

Stiles’ entire body stiffens, and he can almost taste the threat in the nonchalantly spoken words.

“Your friend looked like he had the time of his life,” he resumes the story. “Heck, I gotta say, I even had second thoughts whether or not he was the same person. He looked really happy with his life.”

Stiles quiets down, doesn’t sniffle and doesn’t hiccup, “Good.”

The snipping of scissors pauses before it resumes again, ending the deafening silence. “You know what you are, Stiles”

“Not a psychopath, I can tell you this much,” Stiles scoffs.

“And off with the heady sarcasm,” Derek chirps, “Seriously, isn’t it getting a little old?”

Just to spite him, Stiles chuckles, “Nope,” he drags the ‘p.’ “I mean,” he clears his throat with a wet cough. Gosh, he shouldn’t have screamed his lungs out like that. It’s not like that’s the first time Derek’s fucked him that hard. “Do you ever get tired of being the psycho mania that gets off on maiming, skinning, and raping?”

“So we’re the same.” Derek deadpans.

“You don’t get enough of torturing me, and I don’t get enough of putting you on blast every time you think you’ve had your way with me. There’s a difference.” Stiles huffs, crossly. His nostrils flaring

“You hear that, Peter?” Derek muses like he’s just gotten his hand on something Stiles babbled away unconsciously during his rant. “He thinks I do not have my way with him.”

A high squeak leaves Stiles when he tries to mock-laugh with his hoarse voice. “I said it before, you bastard” he starts, “I’ll say it again so that this time it sinks in for good. I’ve long since had you figured out; you’re a child, Derek. I don’t know what fucked-up environment you were raised in when you were a kid but brute force isn’t gonna cut it for you anymore. It never had with me that is. Sorry, badass. And if you’re thinking of bringing up your trump card of hurting my friend wherever the hell he is, I say go ahead and screw yourself. You think after everything, Scott won’t be prepared for getting jumped at again? Are you also an idiot besides being a nut job?” he seethes, the tirade of his ranting making Derek completely still and silent. “I’ve managed to break out of every room you put me in, what makes you think I’d stop. Because you say you love me? Are you fucking kidding me? Why would I fall for a nutcase like you? You abuse me physically for leisure. You rape me on a regular basis and plug your cum inside after every single time. And God, this is the worst of it. You always talk like you already have me wrapped around your little finger!” He pants, breathlessly.

“Seems like your story is short of a little detail, though.” Derek mutters.

Stiles narrows his eyes on the floor, searchingly. His chest heaves.

Derek lifts the scissor and stabs it into the mattress next to his knee. He combs the short hair and scoffs, hot breath fanning down on Stiles’ cheek. “I’ve never asked you to love me back.” He says, icily. “You know why?”

Stiles gulps, chest lifting off the mattress as he anticipates the answer.

“Because you already do” he scoffs, “and for the record, you can’t get out.”

“You say that now,” Stiles barks a derisive laugh, ignoring the bit where Derek said Stiles loves him back because he doesn’t. He never will. “But guess what, even if Peter here is loyal to you to a fault, I’ll still find a way out. And not you, not any of your sick minions with a penchant to set up innocent people and yell out Nebula out of the freaking blue can stop me!”

At that, Derek’s body tilts sideways, and he falls over with his eyes closed, going completely limp.

“Derek!” Peter rushes towards them, wide strides getting him sooner to the mattress.

Stiles, awestruck and wide-eyed and also still in a lot of pain, bugs his eyes out at an unconscious Derek. The unmoving body and the lax features, it’s almost as if he’s died in his sleep. But Stiles knows the devil isn’t dead –he isn’t sure if he is even mortal, for that matter. However, something must have gone wrong, and with all the experiments the maniac does on people. Maybe it’s finally backfiring, and this is some special brand of hell concocted for him. Stiles can’t bring himself to care at this point. He waits until Peter is cradling the psycho on his lap and then he latches at the scissors Derek planted into the mattress. He yanks them out and, raiment-less makes for the door, not looking back, not even once.

He stumbles out of the door leading to the stairs of hell and savors a moment with the rackety of life bustling in the refulgent hallway. Although he’s out of eyeshot, he can’t help but peek at the civilians traipsing in and out, minding their own business. An image of Derek blacking out flashes inside Stiles’ head. He stills completely, the memory rendering him motionless. He actually marvels at the fact that he’s getting second thoughts here and, fuck, almost worrying about that psycho maniac who tortured him in every possible way your mind can think of. He raped him every day. He double-raped him on bad days. He starved him, killed all his friends. Why is Stiles supposed to worry about a person like him, now, of all times?

A reedy voice, the female receptionist’s, blares through the speakers about ‘Doctor Derek Hale is required in room 66’, and Stiles panics. He scans the hallways with a pair of trembling eyes. He knows he can’t head out, so he tiptoes to a random door, twists the knob and rejoices at the temporary shelter. Apparently, the patient in this room has been given some of the good stuff –if the dopey eyes and the drool are any indications to go by. Stiles takes the liberty to poke around this guy’s things. He cry-laughs faintly when he gets a hold of a white Henley and light blue jeans. He doesn’t bother with shoes. He puts the Henley on first, feeling a shock of pain shoot through him once the fabric touches his back wounds. Then he quickly dons the pants, not wanting to waste any more time. As he fumbles with the zipper, he can feel small beads of sweat running down his forehead, mingled with metallic-smelling liquid.

There’s a square clock on the dresser that shows five thirty in the evening.

Stiles borrows the guy’s phone. He also borrows his money, and if there were keys he’d borrow them too, but he doesn’t want to linger. Derek’s men (he must have bought new mercenary since Isaac died and the other machete and bow men haven’t shown their mugs in a while) they’d be out there looking for him, so Stiles scurries stealthily towards the gate of his freedom.

He stands at the top of the stairs, just taking in everything for a moment. He can see signs of a town with scattered street lights just a few miles away from the clinic. There’s a vast and almost vacant parking lot just ahead of the entrance. Other than that, there are just acres and acres of fog-covered woods looking ghostly under the cloudy night sky –the first he’s seen of the outside world in months. But then he hears it: the gruff voice that belongs to the machete man reminding Stiles of gory images and blood-curdling screams. He whips his head to the source of it and finds the man with another, making their way to the gate from inside the clinic. Stiles’ feet shuffle, and soon he is dashing to a gray Camry. He attempts to unlock its door, but it doesn’t open. He glances fervently at the gate and sees the two men scanning the place from their perch. Stiles ducks and crawls to a red Civic. When he touches it, the car alarm goes off, revealing his location in the vicinity.

He stills, completely.

For a moment, he can almost feel his heart beating in his throat: so loud, he hears the pulse.

He props up very slowly and finds the two men sprinting his way. It’d take at least a minute to break the window of the car and unlock the door. Then if there’s no key in the glove compartment or on the dashboard, he’s going to have to hot-wire the damn car and that could be another minute. Without pondering the consequences, he turns around, and sprints forward –towards the woods.

 

Dead, dewed twigs stab his uncovered soles and dry but sharp branches graze his wounded sides, but Stiles doesn’t stop, not even for a breather.

He remembers writing this scholarly article back in junior year. He picked the topic about TF-CBT under the expressed notion that reliving traumatic experiences heal PTSD. It’s ironic, because it’s exactly what he’s doing now -reliving his deepest fears, his worst nightmares.

He hears the scuttle of footsteps, crunching the fallen leaves and coming after him.

He is hurt. The cuts on his face have reopened and are now dripping blood -he swipes at them with his sleeve. He is cold.

The fresh odor of pine trees and mountain plants gets carried in the wind, spread out in the chilly space, and it brings silver light with it. When Stiles looks up, he finds that the clouds have cleared out a little and there it is, the half moon with its radiant halo, illuminating his path and shedding light on the cabin just a few yards away. Stiles looks around, assured that nobody is close by skulking him. He trudges to the cabin and locks himself in its bathroom.

He feels around for a light switch; he doesn’t find it. It’s a cabin, he should’ve guessed as much. His hand knocks against a flashlight. He flicks it on to study his surroundings. The room barely has enough space for a person his height to recline askew. There’s a mirror cracked in the middle hanging on the panel. Barrels, a lot of barrels, a dirty sink, a head shower spray and some shabby towels on a rack. Someone’s gone through some trouble installing everything, and the pumps, someone lived here. It’s too bad they left in a hurry, leaving everything behind. He guesses their loss is his gain.

He looks in the mirror; a ravaged face of a torture victim is looking back at him.

“What have you gotten yourself into, stupid Stiles” He tells his reflection, and he wipes a smudge to amend it but more blood smears stain the surface. He is left with is a blurred image of himself -of his unknown future. He feels the injuries Derek left on his back bleeding again. He fetches a towel, turns the spigot on, but there’s no running water. He spins just a little so that most of his back is facing the mirror but enough so that he can crane his neck to see what reflects on it as well. He furls the Henley from the collar and freezes at the sight: there are letters carved into his back. He doesn’t remove his shirt because he’s pretty sure the fabric has glued itself to the blood, but he pries it apart from his skin bit by bit just to read what the fucker carved on his skin.

“De…rek” he reads, “Hale” his breath suddenly hitches as he exclaims “he engraved his name! He fucking etched it into my skin!”

Suddenly something creaks outside these confining walls, something ominous. Stiles looks up, pupils blown and chary, he quickly places the towel on his wounds to keep them from bleeding more as he stands still, waiting.

Footsteps march very slowly inside the cabin, ignoring how the plank moans under strain.

“Stiles~” a velvety voice intones, playfully.

Stiles’ body goes rigid with fear. His pupils dilate with it. They tremble as he holds his breath, praying to whoever brought him here to spare him. Last time he saw Derek the maniac was unconscious, so what in the blue hell is he doing here trailing him down.

“I know you’re in here.” Derek sing-songs, “this is actually a lot of fun.”

Stiles’ jaw hinges down as resignation finally settles in.

He’s been going around it for a while when the glaring truth had been there, in plain sight: he can never get away. Not now, not ever. He is Derek’s hobby; he is that man’s plaything and men like Derek don’t give up on their playthings. Somehow, Stiles knew that but he preferred the illusory safety he felt not mulling this over.

Valiantly going against Derek’s orders, diving head-on into the man’s darkness and pulling devil-may-cry stunts… he knew it was a world of make-believe so he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality of the situation. There’s no way Derek would let go of him now, not after he’s gone to the extreme to make Stiles his bitch, even carving his own name on his captive.

 

A Knock…

Stiles’ eyes well up with tears that soon stream down his cheeks, and soon, he is sobbing silently.

Two more knocks now.

Stiles clears his throat and looks around the bathroom again. He probably can’t escape, but he’s going to make sure he’ll go down fighting if it comes down to that.

Derek pounds on the door now, “Open the fucking door, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head and shuffles in a slight rearward movement, grabs the flashlight and aims it at the door.

The door rattles when Derek, most likely, punches it.

Stiles doesn’t want to be entombed inside those four walls again, and he doesn’t want to spend what’s left of his life pleasing a maniac until he fades away… gosh the idea alone is repellent to him.

“This actually amps up the passion in our relationship, don’t you think?” Derek scoffs, pounding the door and twisting the knob, willing it to come off, which Stiles fears, could happen soon. “Come on, Stiles enough games, open up.”

“No.” Stiles’ brittle voice hollers.

“You want me to kick this door down, ‘cause I will!” Derek threatens.

“I want you to leave me alone!” Stiles bellows.

“Now you’re just acting like a teenage girl who cries ‘I hate you, Dad’ and locks herself in her room.” Derek jokes. “Come on, Stiles” He coaxes, “Open up; I’m kinda itching to see you.”

“No, you want to beat me to death.”

“Not to death, per se.” Derek assures, “it can’t be helped, Stiles. What? You go harum-scarum and try to buy your ticket outta this place and expect me to let it slide?”

“You carved your name on my back!”

Derek falls silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he sighs wistfully, “did you like it?”

Without thinking it through –and why should he? Suicides aren’t supposed to be planned– Stiles strangles himself with his bare hands hoping his tongue would block his trachea when he falls unconscious. The flashlight falls from his hand and lands harshly on the old plank, lolls to the side when Stiles crumbles to his knees and lands shoulder-first.

 

He wakes up to a face beaded with perspiration and a pair of terrified eyes peering down at him –the revenant. Derek is looking scared? Now, this is a moment to behold. Stiles fights past the hazy vision to focus on what Derek is shouting.

“You hear me,” he snarls, “Your life is mine, you bastard. It’s the final rule. You have no right to end your life without my permission. If you do something like this again, I’ll make sure to bring you back and hurt you to the point you’re gonna want to die again, but you won’t, ‘cause I won’t let you.” He is barking at the last sentence.

This is what Stiles’ been resuscitated for, to hear more threats? In that case, he’ll just go back to being unconscious. At least that way, he’ll be doing something to shelve the torture that is sure to follow.

 

Tap, tap, tap...

Stiles groans awake.

Slosh.

He heaves a sigh as he puffs out his chest and straightens his back. When he tries to stretch, he finds that his wrists are tied behind his back and that he is perched on a wooden chair.

“I never tire of watching that,” Derek’s voice replaces the silence for a scary moment.

Stiles’ eyes dart to the man whose elbow is resting on the armrest of the settee just inches apart from the chair that has, obviously, replaced the mattress.

“That’s probably cause you’re a nut-job.” Stiles hisses, jerking his hands to untie the cord.

Derek’s shoulders rock when he gives a small, taunting laugh. “I’m not the one who tried to kill himself.”

“Surprised you haven’t.” Stiles glares defiantly, corner of his lips curling up into a smirk.

Derek wets his lips and folds his arms over his chest. “So what’s your theory?”

Stiles shrugs. “There’s no theory; you’re a complete maniac, and that’s that. Maybe a little schizophrenic too.”

“I don’t talk to myself or hear voices in my head.” Derek counters, “So what’s your other therapeutic opinion?”

“You should probably check your epinephrine levels,” Stiles scoffs, humorlessly. “And while you’re at it, don’t forget to pass by a psych ward. I’m sure they won’t mind lending you a straitjacket.”

Derek hums and nods, “I see.” He concludes, “epinephrine, huh?”

Stiles scrunches up his face, “Don’t tell me I’m about to hear a lecture about endogenous chemicals by the Oh so amazing Derek Hale, the psycho neurologist.”

“Even better,” Derek chirps, “we’re going to witness a demonstration.”

Stiles peers up at the man.

Derek, still smiling, takes out a small syringe from the pocket of his pants.

Stiles’ heart somersaults.

“I understand there hasn’t been much change of airs,” Derek sidesteps the chair with the syringe in hand. “After spending months holed up in this room, I bet you’re starting to feel stuck in a rut. I would.” He suddenly comes to a standstill. “But I told you before, many times already, this is your home now,” he says through gritted teeth. “Stop plotting jailbreaks.”

“You’re not exactly giving me much option here, Derek.” Stiles murmurs, eyes sliding to the corner, attentive for Derek if he does stab that needle in his face. “Calling it jailbreak isn’t going to make me stop.”

Derek walks up to the backrest of the chair, and Stiles can’t see the man even if he cranes his neck. Heavy hands rest on Stiles’ shoulders, one holding the syringe. “Do you remember when I said I’d get my men on your friend if you attempted anything like trying to escape?”

Stiles’ mouth runs dry.

“I tried to avoid resorting to that, I really did, but you’re so caught up with trying to get away from this place, from me. I think I’m fucking done trying to save your ass. It’d be very remiss of me to ignore it this time, you can’t dodge this one, Stiles, Your friend will bear the consequences of your selfish actions.” His hands, they squeeze Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles shakes his head. “Kill me,” he howls, voice resonating into the room and coming back to him. He adds, calmer now. “You know I’d never be yours, even if you use my friend.”

Derek returns to sit on the armrest of the settee, “Oh I’ll use him, and your parents, I’ll kill all of them,” he says on a dazzling smile. “Until there’s just you left.”

There’s a numbness that is slowly wiggling its way to Stiles’ limbs, spreading out from his middle. A certain memory of Derek never failing to keep his promises flashes before his wide, terrified eyes.

“P-please…” he mutters in almost a whisper.

Derek cocks his head and gives a condescending smile.

“Please,” Stiles pleads again, parting his mouth open for a moment before gritting his teeth with apparent fear; tears that he didn’t know his eyes held roll down his pale cheeks.

To his astonishment, the smile Derek gives him is more maniacal than he’s ever seen the man make before. He leans in a little closer, eyes glinting with something malicious. “Why are you scared?” he inquires, voice deep and smoky. “When I’m already here.”

Stiles feels his breath leaving him, and his lungs are soon chasing after every gulp of air, giving way to a full-fledged case of hyperventilation to hit him like a tide of raging waves.

Derek hushes him gently, bringing a hand to Stiles’ cheek and the other he uses to inject his arm with the aforementioned syringe. Stiles’ sobbing and panting noises turn into low groans as warmness, odd and intense, swells inside of him, riffling and warring within without mercy. He throws his head to the back; eyes roll under his lids and images of what happened in the woods reappear as his senses dull. If only he grew tame and deified Derek, consented to his commands, none of this would have happened. And soon, there's a strangled and garbled sound down his throat before he parts his lips and lets loose a feral scream.

Derek unties Stiles’ wrists and stands before him, just waiting, watching with rapt how Stiles, as soon as he is freed from the shackles, pounces Derek’s lips. The latter indulges him, kissing him back and moaning into the reckless kiss, teeth and noses knocking together. Stiles pushes the other down on the settee and immediately straddles his lap, crotch grinding against Derek’s, who lets go of a low rumble in response.

 

After Derek left the room, leaving Stiles half naked and slumped on the settee, Kim Peter walks in. Unlike any other times, he wakes Stiles up with a wary look in his eyes.

“Stiles,” Peter shakes him by the forearms, “wake up, come on, wake up!”

Stiles, groggy and sexed out, lets his head loll to the side, doesn’t open his eyes until Peter shakes him hard again. “What now?” he grumbles, jadedly.

“We need to leave here!” he hollers, lifting Stiles up and crouching to lift his pants up next.

“No,” Stiles mumbles, “I don’t want a repeat of last time. I don’t trust you.”

Peter straightens up and fixes Stiles with a strange look. “He trusts me now,” He says, “Derek trusts me.”

Stiles creases his eyebrows in response.

“Look, he didn’t use to be like this. It all happened after Ms. Blake showed up at the doors of this clinic.” He tells him, fumbling over his pockets for something. He takes out a handkerchief and tosses it to Stiles. “After he collapsed the other night, I decided I’ve had enough. Something isn’t right.”

“You think?” Stiles scoffs, taking the handkerchief and bowing a little to see between his legs, feeling his body heavy from the waist down. After Peter looks away, Stiles wipes his inner thighs and mumbles something about Derek coming a lot inside of him.

Peter finally faces Stiles and flares his nose. “I’ll get you out. I can deal with the men who brought you here, and I hope Derek doesn’t suspect anything until I’ve dealt with Jennifer.”

“Deal with Jennifer, how?” he asks, following suit after Peter headed to the door.

“Do you remember when you and your friend escaped?” he inquires, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Do you remember how he was?”

Stiles can’t exactly forget that even if he wants to.

“When he’s upstairs, he doesn’t remember anything about spending half of his time with you, but when he’s here, he remembers everything about his life up there.” He cranes his neck outside the door, scans the hall and forges forward when no one shows up. A fervent glance over-shoulder assures him that Stiles is walking closely behind. “I inspected Jennifer had something to do with it, the fact that Derek Hale’s mood changes every time she’s around. I realized something, when you ranted on the other day, something you said, it’s the same thing Jennifer says to him sometimes.” He stops and looks up. “There are no cameras around because she doesn’t want Derek to find out about this place when he’s lucid.” He suddenly turns around, facing Stiles again, “You know what hypnosis is?”

Stiles’ eyes widen.

“I looked up Jennifer’s files; she’s a hypnotherapist. She’s had Derek hypnotized ever since she stepped foot into this place, and he doesn’t know. He won’t listen to someone like me either.”

“Hypnotized?” Stiles almost laughs, “But how is that even possible. He isn’t usually dripping balls when he’s raping me silly; how can someone be so evil and not remember?”

“Believe what you want,” Peter tells him after a pause, “I’m taking you out of here, but once you leave, don’t look back. Go to your family, tell them about Derek’s men and leave everything behind.” He advises, “Don’t stop until you’re far by a good hundred miles.”

And that is a tempting idea. “What about Derek?”

Peter lowers his head. “Knowing him, the truth will most likely kill him.” He says, now his eyes do a stupid glint that deceives Stiles with something like hope and care which he no longer trusts is there. “He is a brilliant doctor. He saves lives.” He starts, “I’ve worked for his family since I was a kid. I looked after him ever since, and he’s never been this aggressive. Something must have happened that changed him, and I know the answers I’m seeking Jennifer has them.” He determines, “I’ll deal with her first, cut off the head of the snake, right? Hopefully, with her gone, his ‘dark’ side will be gone as well.”

Stiles has the good grace to look a little cowed by the revelation at least and, for a fragment of a second, he is suddenly beset by doubts.

“I know it’s not gonna cut it, but I’m sorry for everything.” Peter’s features contort apologetically.

“You’re right,” Stiles grits out, “it’s not gonna cut it.”

“I wish you’d met him under better circumstances. The real Derek Hale.” He sighs until his chest lifts up and falls. “You haven’t missed the train. Stiles, go back to your family, to your life. You still have time to start over; many didn’t.” Saying so, Peter turns around and walks away.

 

That’s it?

‘Go back to your life,’ what kind of half-assed speech is that? And Peter couldn’t look a little more emphatic for him? And sorry, for what, for allowing Derek a better playground by keeping his mouth shut about every possible kind of torture Stiles had to undergo, or about Derek’s insanity and his regal forebears’ whom must have been the pioneers of those woods. Gosh, just how many people have they killed so far! –tortured and... Stiles’ entire body heats up; damn it, he can even feel little remnants of cum slowly sliding down his inner thighs. So all those times Derek did whatever he wanted with Stiles, it’s because he was hypnotized to do it. Is this the joke of the century or what. You can’t just go about, hunting down humans for a hobby, peel off their skin for sheer pleasure, and then blame it on hypnosis. –Stiles’ hands ball up into fists by his hips– you can’t just spend that much time, confined to someone for hours, brag about owing them, loving them… and not remember.

There it is the door to Stiles’ freedom, the thing he’s always been jonesing for.

Yet why does it look so far away.

 

His feet shuffle, undecided about the direction they want to carry him to, they stomp towards the doors but soon come to a sudden halt, and draggle towards the direction Peter disappeared to instead.

He can’t leave just yet.

Just like Peter is looking for answers, Stiles also wants them, and he wants them now. –his body collides with someone else’s and Stiles recoils to the back, wincing as the movement jars his injuries. They’re still so ripe he can smell them.

“Oh, it’s you.”

The deep, velvety voice –Stiles snaps his eyes up to the man before him, his own widening with shock and horror. Maybe this time Derek will give the order, maybe he will finally decide he’s had enough of Stiles and have him killed in the worst possible way. Maybe his psychopathic love was merely an infatuation, and those don’t last.

“I gotta be honest with you,” he says, smiling thinly. “I think I deserve to know what’s going on with you.” He starts, “you can’t just show up a second time in my clinic looking like you’ve survived a train crash and expect me not to ask questions.”

Stiles’ mind goes blank.

Peter wasn’t lying… the void-faced bastard wasn’t lying.

Derek, dressed in a lab coat and holding a couple of yellow files, furrows. “Ah-huh,” he says, swinging his index ‘no’ and closing the distance between them. “That’s the face you made last time before you squawked your lungs out.”

“Derek.” Stiles’ hand goes up to clutch Derek’s.

The latter tilts his head a little and smiles. “It’s Doctor, but sure, at least we’re getting to something if you’re starting to talk.”

Stiles shakes his head sideways. “Listen to me.” He squeezes Derek’s hand, desperately, yet his voice holds no argument. “Jennifer, the hypnotist, she’s been controlling you, Derek. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it for you because you’ve been a complete jackass to me,” he holds Derek’s look, and doesn’t even blink when he discloses the truth, “she hypnotizes you to torture and kill people. There’s a dungeon underground where you keep them; it’s where you’ve been keeping me this whole time.”

Derek’s smile falls, and he takes an unconscious, faltering step to the back, trying very faintly to retract his hand from Stiles’. “I think you should leave.” He concludes, wets his dry throat and sighs attentively. “It’s fine. I won’t charge you or anything, just, please, leave.”

Stiles curses under his breath, letting go of Derek’s hand to take off his shirt. He turns around, baring his back to the man, “you engraved your name on me a few nights ago, Derek,” and it still pulsates like a bad throb. “I can even show you the dungeon where you keep your pets, and how do you explain the scar on your face? Look, there’s a ton of evidence if you want to debate this, but we don’t have time.” When he turns around, Derek is pale and ashen-faced. “Peter went to face Jennifer about all this, but he’s gonna need our help.”

“Peter?” he echoes, disbelievingly, “My uncle?”

Stiles nods. “He’s had enough of cleaning up after you,” he explains, “tonight he said he was going to deal with your psycho therapist to put the lid on your dark side.”

The files in Derek’s hand fall to the tiled floor, and he slowly totters rearward, landing on the wall behind.

Stiles walks up to him. “We don’t exactly have time for this, Derek.” He bellows, “I need to ask you something, alright?”

Derek’s pupils are trembling so fast Stiles isn’t sure the man is taking in anything right now, but he asks anyways.

“Do you know why she did this to you?”

Derek surprises him when he shakes his head, “God,” he groans. “All those dreams that I’ve been having lately, that’s real?” He looks into Stiles’ eyes, awe-stricken and scared, like a little kid. “And your body,” he doubles over, retching, but nothing comes out, “I did that?”

Whatever glint was left in Stiles’ eyes, goes out. “Yes, you did this to me” he deadpans. “You killed my friends and had your minions torture them, just like you tortured me.”

Derek’s heaving stops and his entire body goes still.

“My ass is still crammed with your cum, Der.” He brings a hand to his abdomen, strokes it in sensual motions. “We fucked so hard in my cell just half an hour ago.”

Derek’s lump pops along his throat when he looks up, beholding Stiles’ body in such an unsettling silence. And so out of the blue, he shoots past Stiles, making his way to the stairs. Stiles, for the first time, feels so alive. He’s finally reciprocated the favor. Derek will never be the same –tortured by his own dreams, that’s inconsequential, but these reminders, Derek Hale will relive the hell he’s hauled Stiles down to.

Derek leads them to a door with a nameplate that reads Lee Jennifer; he rams it open and walks in, Stiles in tow. Jennifer looks up from her desk, wide eyes bewildered. She entwines her fingers over the open files she has on her desk and smirks.

“Decided to bring your playground upstairs?” Her smirk deepens, “I have to say, that’s a little stretching it, even for you.”

“You whore.” Derek snarls and watches with fury how she drops her smirk and stumbles to her feet. He scurries to her side, but she backs away, terror seizing her. “You had me hypnotized for your own amusement!”

She doesn’t deny anything and Stiles can see how Derek wants to tear himself out of his body.

“Why!” Derek exclaims with a roar, his voice almost cracking.

She shrugs. “Because I can?” she says. “Just for funs. You and I played a little game a while back, and I had you profiled. You were still shaken by the death of your parents, and I offered you a way out. You didn’t refuse,” she explains. “In one of the psychology tests I gave you, you showed high chances of personality disorder, and I used it for my academic research.”

Stiles, even liking the look of horror on Derek’s face, he can’t stop that side of him that feels anger on Derek’s behalf. To have his mind screwed around with like a guinea pig, he’s one unlucky son of a bitch.

“You permitted the hypnosis session to help you forget your parents’ death,” she elaborates. “And I took the liberty to uncage that side of you that has been dying to be released for a long, long time.”

Derek fists his hand and punches the desk, not caring if it cracked his knuckles. “Are you kidding me?” he bawls, “I killed people, I tortured them…” He stares wide-eyed at a spot on the desk, as though finally realizing something that, by the looks if it, horrifies him. “I raped him.”

Stiles flinches under the pair of eyes now staring at him.

The door flings open again as Peter walks in, covered in cuts and blood. He takes in the scene for a moment before slumping down face-first. Stiles retreats away from the body. His eyes glancing at Derek and then back at the door as two men, the machete guy and the bowman, walk in, brandishing their weapons about.

“Nebula,” Jennifer mutters with a smirk.

And then all the pieces fall together, and Stiles finally sees the image that’s been kept under veil all this time. The key word, the thing that connects Derek to his sanity, a single word that –Stiles grits his teeth– has a lot of people killed horrendously. When he looks Derek’s direction, he knows what he’s going to find, but he is not scared to see it.

“Love~” Derek drawls, playfully.

Stiles holds his ground, he wants to scoot out of that open door, he wants to so bad, but he won’t.

Derek saunters towards Stiles’ direction. “What in the blue hell are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same thing,” Stiles smirks, “but then again, you probably won’t remember.”

Derek tilts his head like a confused dog, “I asked you a question, Stiles”

Stiles, for the part of being wise, scuffs his feet to the back.

“He’s been defying your orders and going about causing your men trouble,” Jennifer provides in his stead, “Can you please see to his rebellion.”

Stiles glares at her and switches to look at Derek, who is already palming out his hand to send a slap across Stiles’ cheek. The latter didn’t survive months of unrelenting agony and made it out of that cell to eventually fall victim to Jennifer’s plots, that’s not how he’ll go down. “Derek,” he says in a small voice, gentle, caring.

Derek’s open hand stops mid-air.

“I defied you by leaving my room, I admit to it.” He says, “But if I really wanted to leave, I wouldn’t still be here. Peter came to me for help, you understand? Derek, I’m not your enemy, she is. She’s done things to your head, and she’s had you fooled all this time.”

“Nonsense!” Jennifer blares her nose, “Derek is my coworker,” she declares, “I’d never do something so out of the line like that.”

Derek quirks a smile, “she’s more convincing.”

Stiles swallows hard, hoping to ease the sharp stab of envy piercing his stomach. And in a moment of prolonged silence, he reevaluates his choice of words, because it could be his last.

“I don’t want to go back downstairs,” he admits, eyes slowly beholding Derek’s after the latter mutters a ‘you’ve made that plenty clear.’ “But I don’t want to leave you either.”

“I’m listening,” Derek intones and ushers to Jennifer to keep quiet when she interjected to say something.

“What I want is to walk under the sun with you side by side,” he says. “It’s tearing me apart to say this, but I realized that no matter how hard I try to leave here, I can’t bring myself to whenever I remember my time with you.”

Derek narrows his eyes slightly at his captive.

“Derek, let’s leave here. I want us to be together away from all these people.” He pleads, now dashing forward to take Derek’s lips in his, “I love you.” He whispers through swollen lips. His eyes now look into Derek’s, and for a terrifying moment, he almost believes his own act because the look in Derek’s eyes has too much love, harbored for him and only him. “I want to be with you forever.”

In a remarkable second, Derek spins around and steals the machete from its owner’s scabbard, stabbing his chest with it. The bowman jumps back, outside the room, draws his bow and arrow and shoots it Derek’s way, hitting his knee. Derek cries out and falls to his other knee, cradling the one injured. The bowman brings another arrow. This one he sets its head on fire before he shoots it.

“Derek!” Stiles calls out “Watch out!”

Derek dodges the flaming arrow coming his way, allowing it to go past him and land inside on Jennifer’s desk and the papers immediately go aflame. Jennifer seizes the moment of everyone’s distraction to flee the scene, uncaring about perfecting the plan anymore. When Stiles tries to go after her, his ankle is caught by Peter. He demurs after whipping his head at his direction, wanting to ignore him but Peter is the one who helped him out of the room, so he owes the man this much. He doesn’t want to be owed, especially not by someone like Peter.

“The patients,” the man in pain coughs out, “Get them out.”

Stiles takes in the fight scene and then he looks at Peter again.

“Please,” he begs, blood now seeping through his lips. “This room doesn’t have a fire alarm. The fire’s not going to stop, and the patients might get hurt, please.”

“What about you?”

“I’m done for,” Peter sighs, slowly closing his eyes. “Gonna nap here.”

For a mere psycho’s minion, Stiles thinks Peter went down like a badass. He lingers enough for a final momentary look before he runs down the hallway, coming to a small red box hooked to the wall. He breaks its glass with his elbow –he’s already covered in cuts, what’s one more. He pulls down the fire alarm and dashes to the first door to his right, wrenches it open and moves on to the next until he’s opened all the doors and can see now patients rushing out of their cacophony of bed sheets and morpheme. Stiles guides them out like a scout boy; he helps the ones who can’t walk to their wheelchair and asks the ones who can to take them along.

When the fire reaches the other rooms, Stiles wonders why the smoke detectors aren’t spraying any water but Jennifer’s disappearance kind of gives him the answer he wanted. Speaking of the Spawn of Satan, he catches sight of Jennifer rushing to the direction of the surgery room. Stiles doesn’t waste any time and springs after her. He spots a plant stand, breaks it on his knee in half and uses them to lock the handles of the door after finding her inside skimming through papers for something. Jennifer soon clouts a hand to the opaque round window of the door, the grids on the glass masking most of her face.

“How does that feel, you slut?” He beams, maniacally. No obscenities can soothe his anger, but he feels the bells of winning ring like a blessing. “Not so good, is it? And you know what; I’m not even done yet.” He chirps, using the sharp end of the other piece of the stand to cut his arm and uses the blood, which soon oozes out, to paint letters on the vast white door. “No one’s going to approach this door now. Have fun getting grilled.”

When he faces away, he finds that the smoke is a sea of mist by now and he can feel the lack of oxygen granting him short vision and dizziness. He covers his mouth with a hand and coughs into it, forges between the smoke clouds wafting into the space, looking for Derek.

The flames have eaten most of Jennifer’s desk when Stiles gets to it; he finds Derek crouching over the bowman’s body just beside it. His form hazy amidst the smoke.

“Derek!” Stiles calls out, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the smoke rushes into his lungs, and he coughs into the nook of his elbow again.

Derek lifts off the body and reels around, face splattered with blood. He cuts his eyes up at Stiles –dead eyes that make him feel like he could drown with no chance to float back up to the surface. “He’s gone.”

Stiles nibbles at his bottom lip, doing his hardest to keep from turning around and running with his tail between his legs. “I know.” He tells him, winces when the smoke layers thicken. “Let’s just leave.”

Said man walks up to him, shoulders drooped and jaw slack. “I need to find her.”

“She’s not a problem anymore, Derek. I locked her up in the surgery room.” Stiles beseeches now, “Let’s get outta here too, please.”

Derek shakes his head in a way that says it’s too late and Stiles fucking hates it. He brings a hand to Stiles’ nape, pulls him closer to knock their foreheads together and closes his eyes, a thumb stroking his nape. “I don’t belong out there, Stiles” He says, eyelids slowly parting open, “You have to go.”

Stiles shakes his head reluctantly, not wanting to break off the physical contact because, for the first time in so many months, Derek is holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the entire world.

Derek’s hand gives another squeeze, as though memorizing the feeling of Stiles’ skin under his fingertips because it’d be his last. He lets go just as sudden and pushes Stiles away, “Go!” he hollers, a hand pointing at the direction of the stairs.

Stiles’ feet move on their own accord, but he can’t find the strength in him to look away from Derek, as if he did Derek’s body would evaporate into million smoke particles, to never regenerate again. The smog condenses and what’s beyond blurs. Derek’s shape slowly fades way, just like Stiles feared, taking all the nightmares with him.

 

Stiles runs and runs, and runs like hellhounds are after him, leaving nothing but the flames, the pain, and Derek behind. And he doesn’t stop until a police SUV blares its honk at him, headlights flashing in his eyes like the fluorescent tubes back in the roof of his cell. Blue and red lights spin in the open and Stiles looks around as the vehicle pulls over the lane. He is on the same road their van died at, but this time he is all by himself.

“Sir?” an officer heads his way, flashlight in hand and the other on the hostler of his gun.

Stiles faces him with a glassy look in his eyes.

The taller male becomes more alert. “We’ve received a call about a house fire,” he informs. When he tries to add something, Stiles cuts him off.

“Clinic,” he corrects, pupils traveling to the unending length of the sky. “Not house –that place is not a house,” he mutters. He becomes more focused and looks at the officer. “Did you get everyone out in time?”

The officer nods. “The firefighters are doing their best, sir.” He comes closer, cautiously. “I’m Deputy Jordan Parrish, can I ask you a few questions?” he asks, and when Stiles nods absentmindedly, the deputy ushers him to the car. “Please get inside the car first, let’s get you out of here?”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

“Sushi, man, that stuff is expensive. You sure you don’t want to come?” Scott petitions, brown puppy eyes of doom doing that little glint which drives away any rejections Stiles has ready up his sleeves, but maybe not today.

  Stiles mouth fumbles into a small smile. “I’m not an expert by a long shot, but I’m pretty sure that stuff gives you worms” he says, blithely. He folds another one of his plain shirts and stacks it in the drawer of his wardrobe. “It’s okay, man, you and your girlfriend deserve some downtime to unwind. Besides, dad’s shift ends soon and we kind of already made plans.”

“You’re still stuffing his guts with rabbit food?” Scott gives his friend a shit-eating grin.

 Stiles lifts an index in warning, “veg sandwiches,” he corrects, now slumping on his bed, allowing it to bounce and bring him up and down with the brunt of his weight. “I’m worried about his cholesterol level. Dude, am I the only one who acknowledges the sublime dangers of that?”

Scott raises placating hands, “whatever you say.” He says on a smarmy chuckle, which soon falters and his hands slowly collapse by his sides, “what about tomorrow?”

  Stiles pupils blow wide at his friend, and his jaw clenches.

Scott scoots a little closer to the bed. He’s been standing by the door the entire time, watching his friend bustle about in his room. He’d been meaning to bring this up at some point but he isn’t usually very subtle when it comes to poking at old wounds, so he guessed the best way to approach this without having Stiles recoil from the talk altogether was by bringing it up in the middle of a talk. “Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore are flying here from London,” he informs, “mom heard it from a nurse.”

 Stiles looks away from his friend, eyes catching sight of a bird flying by his window, “I’m not going.”

Scott's chin meets his chest as he lets loose a shaky breath before looking back up at  Stiles, “It’s been four years, Stiles people already moved on from the rumors, found something new to gossip about.”

“Scott,” Stiles stare aims his friend’s, “some people just take more time to move on, I happen to be a walking example.” He confesses, “Going to a cemetery where no bodies are buried is not going to numb the pain of loss away,” he interlaces his fingers together but soon untwines them, “they’re wasting their time.”

Scott ducks his head in surrender. “They find consolation.”

“I’m happy for them,” Stiles snorts, unable to reel in a chuckle. “Personally I just can’t bring myself to find solace at the bottom of an empty casket buried six feet under.”

“Stiles” Scott says in stiff reproach.

“No, Scott” –the other shoots up from his bed– “no” he repeats it in an attempt to have a reign on the retort that wants to come out as a shout. “Standing at empty graves is not how I want to honor their memory. I don’t see a point in going there when all I’d get is the reproaching looks and a big fat dredge-up of the crap I went through, and that’s not something I want to live through tomorrow, or any other day. In fact, I’m pretty much against the whole idea of reliving all of that when I have the chance to avoid it.”

“Boys?”

Scott and Stiles whip their heads towards the door, finding the latter’s father in official garment rooted to the threshold with wrinkles marring his forehead.

“Something wrong?” he demands, keeping the level of his tone as soft as he can.

“Nothing, dad.”  Stiles assures, hurriedly. “Scott was just telling me about his date with his girlfriend” –he switches to look at said man now, on cue– “who must be waiting, by the way.”

Scott holds eye contact with him for a prolonged pause before nodding and turning away. He greets Mr. Stilinski and vacates the house in a huff.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” His father narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

 Stiles dismisses it with a flick of his wrist, “Just Scott being Scott, no big deal.”

“Well, that sounded a lot like a big deal to me.” His father admits, now leaning on the frame of the door, “you want to tell me what’s going on?”

 Stiles sighs jadedly and flops on his bed again, “he asked me to go to the cemetery tomorrow, told him I wasn’t ready.”

The penetrating gaze his father donned tenderizes by now and he lifts his shoulder off the door frame and walks inside, hands sliding into the side pockets of his pants. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, son.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Stiles flails a hand, motioning at the main direction of the door, “and it’s not that I don’t want to, I’m just not really up for it. I’ll go when I’m ready.”

His father nods in agreement, and then gives a pointed look, “look, since it’s the anniversary it’s going to be all over the place, and you know how the townspeople like to gossip” he starts, heedful of his word, “so if you want out, I can send you somewhere nice. I mean until the storm dies out.”

  Stiles gaze meets the floor, “nah,” he scrubs his face with a hand before looking up. “I finally finished my practicum to get home, spend time with you. I don’t want to hightail it outta town and give people something to chat about.”

His father nods, eyes peering at the crown of his son’s head since Stiles lowered it again, “Sounds fair,” he comments, “and, Stiles?”

The said man looks up.

“If you ever want to talk…” He leaves it up to his son to fill in the black with the hint.

Stiles chortles, bemused, “And save me the stagnating hours I get to spend listening to Ms. Ms. Morel reciting The Psychopathology of Everyday Life?” he says, “Not a chance.”

Mr. Lu chuckles but restates what he said, “I mean it, son, I’m here, always.”

Stiles presses his lips on one another and nods, “I know, Dad, thank you.”

 

The first time Scott asked him to show up at the cemetery and Stiles refused, Scott took him in a bone-crushing hug and left it at that. The second time Scott asked and Stiles turned his offer down, Scott patted his shoulder. Third time he only smiled ruefully and nodded.

Now, anniversary or not, Scott usually stomps out in a huff.

Stiles cannot humor anyone.

It was rough: coming back from the hell he went through, facing his friend who, just like the man from his nightmares had once said, had managed to move forward, and then (and this one was the most grueling of all) giving his statement after that deputy brought him back to the town’s police station.

Stiles found out that while they had been fighting for their lives in the woods, chased down by mad men and hunted down like animals in hunting seasons, their families here left no stone unturned. Sent out rescue teams, resorted to media and contacted private investigators. Boyd’s grandmother even went to oracles in hopes to spot her only grandchild. Of course, if it worked, Boyd would still be alive. Stiles still remembers, in vivid details, finding his butchered body.

Scott tried to get him to open up, more than an occasion, nudging him and patting his back, even operating his trademark puppy-eyes of doom on him, but Stiles couldn’t. He just couldn’t for the life of him bring himself to recount what happened after Scott left, knowing it’d break the man. After all, he did leave thinking Allison had died.

Stiles took the year he came back off, spent it relocating from home to hospital, recuperating.

Most of his wounds and injuries, internal and external, have healed beautifully. His infections were treated soon and antibiotics worked wonders on fighting them. His battered face made the most astounding recovery. The only problem was his back.

It seemed that, yet again, Derek, even in his death, had outplayed Stiles.

The carvings on Stiles back took too long to be treated as it was, but Stiles found out that the reason his wounds weren’t healing was because the scalpel Derek had used to cut his skin had been dipped in either raw onion or garlic juice, making it hard for the platelets to coagulate, thus resulting in permanent scars that could only be removed surgically, and that’s something Stiles didn’t opt for.

So to this day, Derek’s full name stays engraved on his skin.

A murder, the entire Hale family was murdered while the youngest son, Derek Hale, had been studying abroad, leaving him under the care of Peter. It was never officially stated –the cause of the murder, but many analysts suspected it had something to do with conspiracy theories going sideways. Derek returned to his family’s house in Canaan after graduating to set up shop, and it had been sailing smoothly until a cyclone called Jennifer Blake clashed at his door.

After Stiles gave his statement, his father went to great lengths to cover up his son’s name and identity to protect him. The protocol didn’t deny him that. But the townspeople were becoming even more troublesome with their meddling so Stiles flew back to his university, escorted by an officer his father requested, to finish his studies.

It’s probably useless to mention his father’s protectiveness increasing after Stiles made it back to the town. Scott was no different either. Always calling and never failing to leave him text messages on his phone. It’s also safe to say that after his return, Stiles never trusted easily. As for going beyond the customary greetings, he still has that listed under never-in-a-million-years.

It wasn’t easy: Ms. Morel, his shrink, keeps telling him. Although he admits so himself, he doesn’t know if it’s really about just that or, maybe, there’s something else. Actually, there’s always something else. When he tells her about the nightmares that hunt him still, she says it’s normal, even him literally screaming himself awake. She says his panic attacks are the manifestation of his inner fears and doubts and that, with all things considered, are normal.

When he told her he’d been masturbating to the scarred name on his back for a while now, she ascribed it to frustration.

And that is what something else is.

Stiles doesn’t go to the cemetery since he can’t face the people who died because of Derek, and he doesn’t go with Scott because he can’t face his best friend when he remembers the nights he spent, moaning, with his mind filled with Derek’s face and hands.

He hates himself. He loathes it with all the passion Derek couldn’t burn away, but he can’t stop. He tried but he just couldn’t what with his mind wandering ways he never thought possible and distracters not doing as effective job as he predicted they would. It’s unfair to his friends. It’s unfair to Jackson and Lydia who blasted off into specks of ash, and it’s unfair to Erica who got beheaded or Allison who died by his hands.

 

“Starting day will be on September, but I’m leaving early, probably in late August, you know, to settle down, commingle.” Stiles tells his father, now taking another bite of his turkey club, eyes flecking about the interior of the busy restaurant.

“But isn’t it a little early, I mean you only finished your practicum recently,” his father worries his brows, creasing them over a marred forehead. “Applying for a job so soon”

“That’s usually how it works, dad.” Stiles informs on a thin smile, “Besides, I think I’m ready to come out of my shell. I can’t do that holed up in my room.”

His father nods, albeit tentatively. “Did you tell Scott about any of this?”

Stiles doesn’t look up when he shrugs a shoulder. “I’ll send him a postcard.”

“Han.” His father heaves out a sigh, dropping his sandwich back on the dish.

Said man’s eyes lift up, landing on his father’s.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two but I know something is going on,” he starts, “now I might not understand but I know for a fact that Scott cares about you.” He reminds with the look in his eyes relenting, “and you need to know that if there are things you can’t tell me, Scott is your exception.”

“I can’t.”  Stiles deadpans, now forgetting about his food and leaning back on the backrest of the chair, shoulders deflating, “I can’t tell him, and I can’t tell you.”

His father perks up, honed expression showing his concern, “What’ you mean, son?” He asked, “what’ you mean you can’t tell us?”

 Stiles faces away for a second, curled bottom lip sliding between rows of teeth, “nothing,” he mumbles before looking back at his father, “I applied for a school in Oroville, dad, they had a spot for a counselor and I said I’d take it.”

“Oroville,” his father echoes in dismay before levering up to his feet, rigid with anger, “so out of the question, son, you’re not going back there.”

Stiles breathes out a bitter sigh, “I didn’t want to say anything about this job because I knew you’d be against it, and could you please sit down? You’re making a scene.” After his father sat down with a muttered ‘you bet your ass I’m against it’, Stiles met his eyes. “Look, dad,” he resumes, “Ms. Morel said that if I wanted to defeat my demons, I’d had better face them.”

“We’re changing her,” his father grouches.

Stiles smile is now fond, “no, we’re not.” He tells him, absentmindedly scrubbing at his spiky stubble with his knuckles, “in fact, I’d like to end the therapy.”

His father gazes at him searchingly, “what’s with the bright attitude all of a sudden, Han, you’re not doing any drugs, are you?”

Stiles chortles a laugh between a stutter and a chuckle, “Actually, I am.” He confesses, “Ms. Morel gets quite the inspiration once her hand starts scribbling away on a prescription paper.”

Older Lu nods and mirrors his son’s beam, smiley eyes getting overcome by wrinkles.

“I’ll be fine, dad.”  Stiles says when the other isn’t expecting it, “It’s gonna be hard to swallow at first, but hey, I’m a survivor” he survived worse “I’ve got this.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I’ll make sure to tell you, I promise.” He leans forward now to tap his father on the shoulder, “Three years at the shooting range won’t be for nothing. I can take care of myself, pops. Don’t grow grey hair over this.”

 

***

 

Oroville’s luster summer faded and fall rolled over, announcing the opening of a new year. It’s been two months since Stiles moved out of his parents’ house, but being an early riser and hustling himself out on errands with a mouth running quicker than his brain, he blended in easily.

He’s been counseling only a few students, it’s a relatively small town, smaller than home, and it’s no surprise if the waiting room outside his office is usually very empty. As long as it doesn’t affect his paycheck, Stiles is content. He is keeping regular contact with his father. Even Mrs. McCall, Scott’s mother, calls in from time to time to check on him. His neighbors are nice peoples and the landlady only shows up at the beginning of each month.

There is scarcely a detail in his new lifestyle that he is not content with, and it’s really the best life Stiles can ask for.

Except for the woods overshadowing the town…

 

It’s been a couple of months now and Stiles has been fighting the urge that resurfaces in the silence of the night to take his steel-black bike and drive towards those woods. He doesn’t know if ‘facing his demons’ is the header of his actions, or if it’s the ‘whacking-off’. Stiles isn’t frustrated, not sexually, that is. He went out on a few dates last year alone, actually with the same person. Theo Raeken, a sweet, thoughtful guy who never pushed Stiles for more than the sporadic kisses they shared here and there until Stiles gnawed it down with a ‘sorry, I can’t do this. You’re a great guy but I’m not ready for this’. Although the guy took his lips in a forceful kiss then to prove his feelings, it only brought on a nasty panic attack and he found himself apologizing and eventually acquiescing to  Stiles decision.

October, the epitome of autumn, opens a new chapter, a new day for new life experiences to be acquired. Okay, maybe not today. It’s Friday so Stiles is lounging at a café, cheek propped on his palm and eyes looking out the window at his side, taking in the hazy light of the setting sun.

He vaguely remembers a waitress coming up to refill his cup and then disappearing behind the counter. He also remembers Scott leaving him a thrashing in the voicemail for not returning any of his calls. He isn’t sure what makes up his mind when he fishes his phone out, lays it on the table and stares at it. It’s been months, and although he can’t bring himself to it, Scott has a right to know. He taps at his number and looks up, gazing out at the far off tree rows before connecting the call.

“Stiles.”

Said guy can practically see Scott’s tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy.” He greets back, voice steady. “Got your voicemail”

“Yea, about that” – Stiles hears the wince– “Didn’t mean to rip into you, but you weren’t giving me much choice.”

“Dude, I got it. Don’t sweat it.” He assures, taking a small sip of his coffee, “how’ve ya been? How’s your girlfriend?”

“Good, been well. She says hi.” He tells him after a pregnant pause, “I’m more worried about you actually. Your dad told me you applied for a job in Oroville. ‘Wanted to head your way but my boss’ not giving me a chance, but dude, what were you thinking?”

“Look, I need to do this.”

“No, you don’t.” Scott retorts, vehemently, “please, bro, just, go for somewhere else. You got accepted there, I’m sure you’ll get accepted somewhere else.”

Stiles shakes his head, realizing in a moment the other can’t see it. “I’ve already signed a contract, can’t undo that.”

Scott exhales noisily, “well, are you okay? I mean it must be weird hanging around that place after everything. Do you need me to come? I got so worried when you stopped picking up my calls.”

“Yea, that was mean, sorry.”  Stiles admits with a small voice, “It’d be great if I can see you all soon, but it’s better if you don’t come over. It’s not like we have a good history with this town and coming here is only gonna cause you pain.” He tells him, frantic with his words, “I need to do this so I can move on, that doesn’t mean you should do the same, it’s different.”

“I understand. I do.”

But

“But why live there? You’d have just gone there a couple ‘times for whatever therapy you’re undergoing and be done with it.”

“Scott,” Stiles clears his throat with a quick swallow, “there are a few things that I can’t talk about now, and I know this feels like I’m keeping things from you but you gotta trust me on this.” He pleads, “Some things are better left unsaid.”

The other is silent for a long time after that and then he speaks, “If there’s something you’re not telling me to protect me, then I can’t trust you on this. You already sacrificed one for me, you’re not doing it again.” He petitions, “So, Stiles, please, whatever’s on your mind just tell me.”

And Stiles, against his better judgment, tells him.

Tells him how Allison was alive when Scott left, how he killed her, ‘rammed that knife right into her chest’ and ended her life. He tells him about the not-hypnotized Derek Hale whose real story never made it to the papers since the police covered everything up with gas explosion so it wouldn’t wreak havoc among citizens. He tells him about Ms. Blake, and how he locked her up in the surgery room and left her to her demise.

And when he was done, Scott was a crying mess, wailing Allison’s name and cutting off his own sobs with mumbled ‘I’m sorry’.

 Stiles disconnects the call without a forewarning, not wanting to hear Scott’s miserable keens anymore.

 

Later that night, Scott sends him a text message, simply thanking him for telling him. Nothing more, and nothing less.

 

The sun rises the next morning grazing over Stiles stiff limbs in peace, which bespeaks another day of chilling cold. He checks his phone for any new texts or missed calls and finds none. He showers and changes into his red plaid hoodie, dark jeans and red sneakers. He heads out to a diner for breakfast. And when the clock hits nine and a half, Stiles gets into his sky-blue jeep and drives towards the woods.

He’s had an entirety of four years and a couple of months to think this over, and despite his doubts and fears, he’s finally decided if he really wanted an end to his nightmares, he’d better seek the cure inside these woods. Half an hour later finds him at the road Deputy Parrish picked him from. He pulls over, once the whir of the engine dies, the silence overtakes the space. He hears a few birds chirping, branches and shrubs rustling here and there. And for an overwhelming second where his memories collide, dizziness almost knocks him off balance but he holds himself up by the handlebars of the vehicle, eyes squinting in the open.

Dry leaves crunch up under his boots as he trudges farther into the woods. A deafening, unsettling silence spreads around, gifting Stiles with a moment’s hesitation but he cuts right through it, wanting to reach the end of this chapter.

Not too long and he starts hearing the faint burble of water.

He follows it.

He comes upon a river, flowing from bank to bank, so he guesses it’s a courtesy of yesterday’s sudden rainfall. A bird squeaks somewhere but the resonance resembles a scream. Stiles rotates around with eyes wide and wary. He walks by the river, head whipping at every ricocheting sound, until he reaches the small pond the cascades created; the pond he crouched inside while assured every one of his friends were just a few yards away, relaxing under the shade of the tree.

So this is the cure?

This is how he will conquer his demons and banish them to the empty so he can have a good night’s sleep for once?

A twig snaps behind him.

Stiles swivels around so fast he is surprised he didn’t snap a joint, all self-admiration seeps out when he finds a black-haired, scar-faced and well-built man in a leather jacket and tight jeans carrying an empty water jug and standing beside a log.

Blood rushes to Stiles ears, blaring off like a siren. The ground feels like it’s been wiped from underneath his soles, leaving only a hole in its wake. The thud of his heart beating vigorously in his ears is loud. Oh, God, too loud.

Deep, dark eyes, jaded and dull, are looking back at him. Thick brows are slowly flying up in mild incomprehension.

“Stiles?”

 

Passive retching noises echo across the bathroom walls as Stiles, on his knees, spills the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. His fists clutch at the rim of the marble thing until blood leaves his knuckles. He heaves more gags, but eventually they reduce to mere spasms and shudders.

 Stiles sags to the wall, face pale and drenched with sweat, fingers shaking after the exertion.

The memory of meeting the man from his nightmares creeps up on his again, vivid and detailed.

 

Derek Hale stood there as though someone playing the clichéd villain had switched the time machine on, and they were back to the day they’d met for the very first time. The only thing remotely different about the encounter is the horrifying memories connecting them now, and the only thing different about the man is the scar on his cheek which Stiles had afflicted.  

The man didn’t talk; he only looked Stiles’ way and soon averted his eyes.

Stiles chest rose up and down, lungs going after every speck of breath. He could feel every danger sensor in him going off-kilter, warning him about the psychotic terrors manifesting as a humanoid being walking his way, but when tried to move, he realized it wasn’t easy when his limbs had gone numb.

Another loud bird squeaks in the open, startling Stiles to his core, but he remained motionless and completely still as the man treaded closer with every step, jug in hand, and when he was only a stride’s length away from Stiles that the latter could see the scar as though through a magnifying glass, he quickly swept past him, the fresh smell of spruce wafting after him.

Stiles ears caught the noise of a deep surface getting filled with burbling water, and he guessed Derek was now filling up the jug. That was his chance. Derek was busy so he sprinted forward. Leaving the river and Derek behind, and he ran and ran, sharp twigs scraping him in his frenzied run.

He didn’t stop until the Jeep came into view, parked askew by the dirt road.

 

He remembers driving but doesn’t remember how he got here. All flashbacks from the killers’ chase came back to him when he stepped into his apartment and he scampered towards the bathroom to rid of the bile.

He opens his bleary eyes and inspects the tiled walls. The pungent stench of acid makes him grunt. He flushes the toilet and levers up by supporting himself to the sink. He rinses his mouth and finally leaves the bathroom.

The rest of the afternoon goes in a flash after Stiles plunges on his bed face-first, falling into a fatigue-induced slumber.

 

Heavy lids part open and whisky eyes meet the morning light streaming in from the window. Stiles turns on his back and faces the ceiling, blowing out a full-bodied sigh.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he berates himself.

He knows he risked a lot by going into the woods, but how was he supposed to know Derek would be there as well? He genuinely thought Derek died in the fire years ago. So what, the guy leapt out of the flames in the last second? Crawled out of the debris and been trudging inside these woods ever since?

Stiles scrubs his face with a hand.

Derek was carrying a metal jug. That means he needed a fresh source of water that he probably usually drinks from. It’s not that far-fetched, actually. If Derek did survive the fire then he’d become hunted by the law, and he probably figured that out on his own which is why he’s skulking in the woods instead. But if he did figure it out, does that mean Derek’s memories aren’t as wiped as he thought they were. Man used to act like he had no idea a keyword switched his gears on the psychosis. In fact, he’d believed the life of the lovable neurologist who cared about the wellbeing of a complete stranger having a mental freak-out.

If he has his memories back, does he remember the things he’d done to people before Stiles crossed his path?

Stiles grips a fistful of his hair.

Derek remembered his name; he remembered Stiles.

And Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that.

He spent some nights in the past two years fondling himself at the memory of Derek’s hands on him, sometimes gentle but other times rough… the phantom of a touch, just barely there accompanying the memory –his phone suddenly rings, rousing him from his monologue.

He stares at Scott’s ID flashing in the screen of his phone, debating whether to pick the call or not knowing his friend is only calling for closure. He told him about the things he spent years keeping buried, but now that they were in the open, Scott would give himself the liberty to ask, to inquire like it’s a fucking movie premiere he missed.

“’morning,” he mumbles, connecting the call eventually.

“You still in bed?” the other marvels, “dude, it’s eleven.”

“It’s Sunday.”  Stiles counters.

Surprisingly, Scott doesn’t try to coax answer out of him; he doesn’t even bring up any of the stuff he told him the day. Scott only… chats.

 

Around two in the afternoon, Stiles dons his jacket and collects the keys to his bike, and with a face set in hard lines, he leaves his apartment.

The drive to the same dirt road doesn’t take him long, and by the time he reaches the same spot from yesterday, the sky is already veiled by gloomy clouds. He gets off his vehicle, removes his helmet and hooks it to the handlebars. He eyes the trees warily and marches ahead, following the same lane towards the river.

As the bushes clear out from his path, Stiles finally sees someone dressed in leather crouched by the river, a jug in hand. His steps almost falter halfway, but he wills his legs to move eventually, finally standing behind the man.

Derek fills up the jug to the brim and finally lifts up. He reels around and his emerald eyes lock on Stiles.

 “What’ you doing here?” he inquires in his voice deep.

The question awakes something in Stiles, alertness, he assumes, and he refocuses.

“Derek Hale,” he manages at last, “what the hell is this?”

Those thick brows come down to a deep furrow, “I’d ask you the same thing.”

Stiles gets his legs back under his control and moves a little forward, “you’re supposed to be dead.”

“Clearly, I’m not.” Derek restates the fact.

“But how?”

Derek attempts to walk past him again, but this voice in the back of   Stiles mind urges him to act, do something –anything, just get the man to explain. So as Derek saunters past him, Stiles’ hand shoots out to the man’s elbow, pulling him so their eyes can see each other. But he doesn’t count on the force with which he pulled the man, obviously unbalancing the man and causing the jug in his hand to fall and clank on the ground. The two of them watch as the water spills to the soil, soaking it.

Derek wrenches his hand from Stiles hold and crouches down to pick his jug.

“What the hell happened to you?” Stiles grits, his eyes fuming with unexplainable rage.

Derek stands up again, bringing the jug with him. “This is drinking water,” he informs.

“I don’t care.” Stiles huffs, haughtily.

“I know you don’t.” Derek shrugs.

Stiles narrows his eyes at the man in raw confusion.

“Go back” he orders, heavy-lidded eyes glaring back at Stiles.

Instead of recoiling to the farthest corner across the earth, instead of getting his bearings together and fleeing, and instead of feeling dread to his very core, Stiles entire body heats up.

When he remains silent, Derek returns to the river again.

“You told me you were going back to the fire. Did you eventually change your mind about dying?” Stiles asks, only his profile is facing Derek.

Derek ignores him and watches with rapt as the water fills his jug.

“What the hell happened after I left, Derek?” Stiles bellows, his words echo off the tree lines.

Derek straightens up to full length again, and this time, he doesn’t look Stiles way when he walks away again.

“Is that it?”  Stiles scoffs after him, “you go from torturing me and raping me to ignoring me altogether?”

The statement brings Derek to a stop, and the fucking anticipation that sears though Stiles at that is unbelievable. But Derek soon mutters a brisk “Go home, Stiles” Over his shoulder and walks away again.

A week, it has been a whole week since he met Derek in the woods.

He’s not rooting for another reunion, God. After he came back home last Sunday, he had nightmares. It was a miracle he survived that night without sleeping pills. Only reason why he’s under the shower head facing the mirror is to reflect.

Last night, Derek came to him in his dream.

He was lying in his bed when Derek walked into the room, same room he is renting at this building. He was wearing a white dress shirt, and black trousers. He stomped his way to the bed firmly. The same footsteps that used to send Stiles to his demise back in that enamel-floored room. He climbed the bed, braced his arms on either side of Stiles middle and then leaned forward. Stiles looked up at him, the blank stare in Derek’s eyes setting his alarms off. He felt his brows twitch in question when Derek only continued to stare at him, but without a warning, the settings of the room changed. That’s where Stiles should have realized it was a nightmare; it was supposed to be a nightmare. However, the way Derek had Stiles wrists strapped overhead, and his legs parted. The way he stroked his naked and flushed skin with the touch of a leather whip, and the way he toyed with   Stiles body afterwards should all have been indications to a bad dream, but Stiles fucking liked it.

He stares horrified at the mirror.

He enjoyed it, and unlike his other dreams, this one felt more real, and more exhilarating.

The breath leaves his lungs starving, and he cups his mouth in an attempt to stifle in the anguished whimpers of disgust and fear, fear of what he might become. He’s always fought the idea. In the dread of the night, when worry awakes him, he always tried to envision himself as a better person, especially after what he’d undergone. Now, he was beginning to fret over the fact that, maybe, this madness is just meant to be.

 

As he stands by his bed, short towel on head, he scrolls down his messages. He finds a couple texts from his family, and from his school, about some -parent-teacher conference at five, where they’ll be having moronic conversations.

 Stiles was outspoken in his way of stating facts to Derek, and he has this feeling in his guts that it did something to the man. Besides, all he said was utter the truth: Derek was going from raping him and torturing him to ignoring him altogether. How is that a byproduct of an ordeal they went through together? Derek had been played with, and Stiles and his friends were the victims –of many others. You don’t ignore each other on the street after something so horrendous like that.  

He flings his phone on the nightstand, and the towel on the window sill. He put on his outdoor garments after eating his breakfast. He steps outside. The autumnal breeze races to his nostrils. He shudders at its chilliness and plunges his hands into the side pockets of his leather jacket. He didn’t take his motorcycle outside today, because he will just take a stroll in the neighborhood. It’s a peaceful morning, and hopefully, the fresh air will clear his head from shadows holding him down, wanting, so badly, to encage his mind.

His converse shoes stomp on fallen, dry leaves. They crunch under his soles as he meanders his way through the narrow alleys. He passes by shops whose owners greet him with a wave of their hands.  Stiles smiles charmingly and waves back, too.

 

He doesn’t even realize where his legs have taken him until he finds himself standing by the woods. Tall, naked trees swaying like giant, skeleton hands. Their rustle so eerie, and the resultant shudder that courses through Stiles is almost too daunting. He beholds the sight of rust-colored boles and leaf-strewn ground with wide, sparkly eyes –like he’s just found the gate to freaking Narnia. However, he knows that, deep down, only nightmares with pointy tentacles are skulking beyond.

As though to uncover the novel mystery, Stiles steps forward.

 

He ends up standing by the burbling river, hands still in pockets. He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t even bother to call out –it might have an undesired outcome anyway if a wolf hears his noise. He just stands there, like a ghost succumbing to its sad ending.

Another wind whooshes, moving the tree branches with it. The susurration echoes across the tree lines like spirits whispering about an impending occurrence. He hopes it’s a pleasant one, although trudging into the woods can’t possibly be pleasant when he knows Derek hunted him here once.

 

When the clock hit three, Stiles looked up from his crouch at the darkened sky. As he attempts to lever up to his achy legs, a sound of bushes crackling piqued his attention. He lifts up very slowly with his head reeled to the direction of the noise. He waits.

A man in a knee-length, black coat, and bleached jeans and combat boots, holding a jug in a hand, heads Stiles’ way. He panics inwardly at first, because he’s seen that jug a couple of times by now, he knows to whom it belongs. He just can’t will himself to get over the fact that Derek still showed up, even after last time’s mishap.

Derek stops a few feet away when he locks eyes with Stiles, but soon rolls his eyes. He averts his eyes and attempts to aim the water. Stiles watches with raw awe how Derek, same as last time, and the time before it, brings up the jug to the cascades and fill it up with water.

“So,” Stiles begins, and he knows it’s the first intimation of a possibly one-sided conversation. “Going for normal? Is this your apple-pie life?”

As expected, Derek ignores him.

 Stiles feels irked at being ignored, and he decides to go for straight-to-the-point. “Do you remember last thing I said the other day?”

To his surprise, Derek nods. It is carried on in a very slow motion, like he has neck cramps and nodding would aggravate his pains.

“Are you still going to ignore me, even though you and I went through all that together?”

Derek remains silent.

Stiles nods to himself, prompting it to reign in his anger. “Fine,” he hissed, “how about you just answer yes or no, then?”

Derek continues to fill up the jug.

“Do you remember what you did to me?”

Derek nods.

Stiles brow arch up in astonishment, he never imagined Derek would go along with his request. “Okay,” he clears his throat, “Do you remember what Jennifer did to you?”

Derek nods again.

“So you remember going back into the fire, and not wanting to leave.”

“I do.” Derek finally replies with words.

“Why are you still alive, then?”

“I got out of the house at the last second.” Derek admits, “I guess I didn’t want to die, after all.”

“You said you deserved it.”

“It doesn’t mean I did.”

 Stiles furrows at the back of the man’s head, “That makes no fucking sense, Derek.”

“It does, to me.” The man replies, curtly.

The spirits murmur again as a persistent wind whooshes amongst the trees.

“Where are you staying now?”

“I cannot tell you that.” Derek shrugged, now finally standing up to full length.

“Why not…?”  Stiles demands.

“I don’t want a repeat of what happened four years ago.” Derek admitted, “I left everything behind, including your memory. I don’t want to be dragged right back to that.” He slowly turns around. “You, being here, is bringing up bad memories, and I’m not very fond of that.”

Stiles furrow morphs into a harsh glare. “That’s rich coming from you, bastard!” He bellowed, now stepping closer to Derek. “If there’s someone who has the right to say that, it’s gotta be me! You’re not very fond of me being here? Well, tough. I’m not going anywhere. I lived months in hell with you. You toyed with my body, you treated me like human waste and now you have the fucking gall to make it sound like it’s my fault?”

“I said you bring back bad memories.” Derek corrects, “And personally, I’m not fond of that.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Stiles concludes.

“Then I guess I should do the honor.” Derek cocks his head.

 Stiles lifts a hand to stop him mid-step, “you’re not going anywhere, either.”

Derek stands completely still for a moment, like a bolt of lightning recharging, only to hit again, fast and deadly. He scrubs his jaw with his unoccupied hand, and sighs. “What’ you want from me, Stiles?” His voice sounds so darn defeated, it’s hilarious. This guy used to raise utter fear in Stiles with just a stare, for fuck’s sake. “I don’t have anything to give you. I don’t have money or stocks, I’m broke, and I can’t even afford a biscuit. I have nothing that you’d want to take away from me, same way I took your innocence…”

Stiles falters at that. Yes, Derek took the most precious thing a human can have, their innocence.  Stiles eyes start to water as he submerges within the memories. This man standing before him stole his everything, and left him nothing but an empty shell, for four, fucking years. “That’s right, you bastard.” He suddenly groused, “You took everything away from me, and I can never be the same.”

Derek lowers his head.

Without his consent, Stiles legs dash to the other man. He latches at his collar, pulling him closer to his raging breath. “You stole everything from me. You expect me now to just let it go? To just forget about, because me, being here, fucking brings stuff up? Are you in your right mind, or what? I don’t give a damn about your little scary night dreams. I don’t even care if you’re penniless. I’m going to make you relive the hell you made me go through, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it!”

Derek scoffs. For the first time, he actually scoffs. When Stiles crinkled his face in wild confusion, Derek tips his head rearward and lets out a laugh. Stiles grip on the coat’s laces tightens, and he frowns. Derek suddenly cuts off his own laugh.

“This is fucking fantastic!”

Stiles eyes widen in complete horror. It’s like a déjà-vu: Dark, evil and sadistic Derek, acting maniacal. His tightened grips loosen up, and fall, each at a side.

“Listen to me, Stiles, and listen carefully.” He starts, “You don’t want to get yourself involved with me again. I may be in control of myself now, but that’s not to say a part of me doesn’t relish the thought of skinning you alive.”

Stiles lungs race after every waft of breath, hoping it’s not the last. His face pales so bad the dead have nothing on him. Above all, he can’t feel the ground underneath his feet.

“Now, that’s a good look on you.” Derek smirks, “what, did you think you can stroll up here and bark orders at me, are you fucking insane?”

Stiles shakes his head in disbelief.

“Look here,” Derek’s expression hardens, “I’m only going to say this once, I want you to leave and never come back.”

Stiles knees give out under him, and he falls to the ground. Wide, unbelieving eyes on the leaves scattered across the earth.

“If you sneak back here, there’s no telling of what I might do to you, understand?” and without waiting for a reply, that perhaps wasn’t going to be worded, Derek hugs his jug closer to his abdomen and tramps away.

 

A bird chirps happily in the far-off distance, and the dry branches continue to crackle and crunch. The burbling water flows in a calming sound, enveloping the low, breathless noises Stiles is making.

He is on his four, his eyes on the ground. He digs his nails into the dirt and drags fistfuls.

He can’t believe it…

He can’t fucking believe it.

He looks between his thighs. He scrutinizes the bulge there –a telltale sign of his erection. “You have got to be kidding me…!”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

After the parent-teacher conference, Stiles headed to his place. He doesn’t remember the nature of the main issue he and the parents of the students discussed, but he guesses it was something moronic. Those talks usually steer from what benefits the students to ‘I keep telling him to stop fooling around, but he doesn’t want to listen. I don’t know what to do’, which he knows could be solved with a little beating. Of course, he doesn’t tell them that, although it’s a great strategy.

 

He lies there on bed sprawled like a starfish, staring up at the plain ceiling.

Derek Hale remembers everything. He remembers doing those things to Stiles, and he remembers what that bitch lady Jennifer did to him as well. Which, okay, Stiles has predicted at some point, but how in the blue hell did the entire reunion end up with him having a frigging hard-on.

It’d have made a little sense if what connected him with Derek were affectionate sentiments reignited by the reunion, but the man… Stiles clutches at his hair at the memory. What they had wasn’t innocent, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t something to be had in the first place. So it doesn’t make sense that he got hard hearing Derek relishing the thought of skinning him alive. So… what, is he a freaking masochist now? Did those times Derek tortured him result in some fucked-up tendency to derive sexual gratification from pain and humiliation?

Did he develop Stockholm syndrome or does he sympathize with his captor now? –he’s never found anything funnier. He feels nothing towards Derek, so it’s safe to say he isn’t sympathizing with that bastard who ruined his life. Even during captivity, Stiles never felt the need to rely on his captive for survival. He always hated the son of a bitch.

This is why he can’t make head or tail of what happened at the last second after Derek left him to his own devices. Why did he get erect back at the woods?

 

Buzz.

Buzz, buzz.

Stiles’ eyes shoot open, wild, brown eyes catching the morning light. He hurls a hand to the clock to shut off the alarm, and the other scratches his chest. He sits up, bed hair sticking out in different directions.

It’s Saturday, and he delights in the idea of the whole day off. He gets to sleep in, have late breakfast and call it lunch, just for the heck of it. He gets to leave the bed unmade and the curtains of the windows drawn. Nobody gives him lip for any of that, and he doesn’t feel bad about it.

 

Half past two in the afternoon finds Stiles inside the woods again, stalling by the river bank with his hands in his pockets. He scrapes at some pebble with the sole of his canvas shoe and finally kicks it into the water. He notices how it suddenly dropped cold, but he doesn’t think that’s enough to call it quit. He knows Derek will come here again with that stupid jug. He knows Derek will glare at him, perhaps give him the hairy eye-roll, but he won’t skin him alive.

If Derek was saying the truth, he would have skinned him alive the day he first showed up there.

He knows the spell had been broken that day at Jennifer’s office right before the fire. There’s no way Derek will fall off the wagon now that his sanity has been put on a leash. Stiles is risking a lot by coming here despite Derek’s warning, or threat, but he feels like if he doesn’t, he’ll be the one to lose his mind.

When his watch showed three fifteen, the whooshing of the wind became more violent, with more howling involved. He decides to wait more, just a little bit more and then he’ll leave.

Those bushes crackle again, the signal of Derek’s arrival. Stiles whips towards the source of the noise, and waits. Derek slowly emerges from between the bushes and the naked branches, dressed in the same clothes from the previous day. This time, instead of the usual jug, he’s carrying a 2.5 gallon plastic, white jug. He glares at Stiles when their eyes meet, and he gives a very hairy eye-roll, just like Stiles predicted.

“I thought you’d stand me up.” Stiles snorted, humorlessly.

Derek walked past him to fill up the plastic jug. “Go home.”

“Or what, you’ll threaten me to death?” Stiles’ voice croaked, “I know you can’t hurt me, Derek. You might as well drop the act.”

Derek leaves the bottle under the cascades and spins around to face him. He scowls. “Oh, let me guess, you’re here to make me relive the hell I made you go through.”

Stiles only gives a crooked smile.

“And how’s that working out for you?” Derek cocks his head, like a cheeky brat. “I don’t see your toolbox, Han, going for the Spanish Donkey there, you fucking brat, or maybe something more poetic like The Pear of Anguish? What’s your brilliant plan, huh?”

Stiles knows that they both know he’ll never be able to lift a weapon against someone if they don’t deserve it. Although he used to think Derek deserved it, it was way before the magic word was revealed. It wouldn’t be fair to this man if Stiles did set his plan in motion: torturing the man who tortured him under the influence of hypnosis. How’s that for more credits in his career.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” Derek finally admits on a defeated sigh.

Stiles clenches his fists by his sides.

“Please,” Derek breathes out, “just leave me the hell alone. I’m not hurting anyone, and I’m not hurting you anymore, so just leave.”

Wordlessly, Stiles drops his chin to his chest.

Derek lifts the plastic jug and ambles past Stiles. When he almost reached the bushes, Stiles hollered aloud. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me, you bastard?”

Derek comes to a standstill, and the water within the cap-less bottle sloshes and spills to the ground. “Suit yourself,” He said, and walks away again.

 

Stiles thought of following Derek to whatever hellhole he usually crawls out of. He thought of busting the man’s hiding spot so he wouldn’t have a safety zone to pull back to. Eventually, he decided not to. Derek said he had nothing to lose, and grating on the nerves of a man who has nothing to lose is risky, and not to mention reckless. In the past, he wouldn’t have cared, but he has a job now, and he has to think about his family as well.

Before he knew it, the clock hit seven. Angry, charcoal clouds hang low in the sky like suffocating soot. The damp-smelling air brisked up its pace, shaking the giant dry tree branches like a meadow of dandelions. Stiles looked up, a drop of rain landed on his cheek, and he knew he couldn’t postpone the impending downpour. The sky unleashes a torrent that exhibits no sign of stopping soon, and the water that was calmly burbling in the river rages in its full glory.

Stiles scurries to the trunk of a skinny tree, thinking that if he takes cover there, the storm will pass by and ignore his existence. He doesn’t count on the jagged flashes of lightning cracking the grey sky. Aside from the fear, he can’t resist the excitement of being the only one seeing this and living it. Of course, any other person with a normal brain would be home, wrapped in a warm blanket and drinking hot chocolate, but he’s not exactly normal. After the lightning strike, Stiles leaves the temporary sanctuary he found at the bole of the tree and strides forward. He is actually surrounded by trees, and if one of them was to fall on him, he’d have no one to blame but himself.

“What’ you doing?” The velvety, deep voice asked.

Stiles stumbled in his attempt to turn, finding Derek standing by the bushes with a lantern in hand.

They hold eye contact even through the wind.

“I missed my chance to go back.” Stiles hollers, hoping his voice will soar above the howling of the wind.

Derek rolls his eyes, and motions with his head. Stiles’ brows twitch in confusion before he deciphers the gesture. He watches as Derek traces back his trail beyond those bushes, and for the first time, Stiles will uncover the mystery that resides there.

He thrusts his hands into the side pockets of his jacket and follows Derek.

 

They meander their way through the storm for a few minutes before Stiles sees the familiar cabin just ahead. He freezes to the spot, and he knows the cold has nothing to do with it.

He remembers that cabin, and he remembers trudging to it in a full-moon night with Derek hunting him. He remembers the pain and fatigue he was enduring that night while praying for a miracle to happen. Eventually, it did. Although he got dragged back to the cell, he made it out. This is what he should focus on: he made it out.

Derek bounds up a couple of stairs at the porch right to the front door, he opens it and skids inside. Stiles takes a deep breath in and lets it out, shakes his head and finally follows Derek’s suit.

 

Stiles shuts the door in the face of the howling wind, and welcomes the silence and the dim light that follow. From his hunch by the closed front door, he scans the interior of the infamous cabin.

There’s a worn armchair by the window with a mountain of books piled at its foot. A wooden table in the middle (on top of which Derek placed the lantern) adjoined to two wooden chairs. He guesses that’s where Derek eats his meals. There’s a counter of logs bundled together providing a ledge upon which to display all sorts of lined clay and wooden utensils and cutlery. A single, tatty bed nestled on the opposite corner with a dark brown cabinet next to it.

He whips his head to the noise of crackling and finds Derek by the stone-structured fireplace, prodding the fire with an iron poker.

“Shouldn’t you open the window first?” He wonders aloud.

“Be useful,” Derek tells him.

Stiles clicks his lips in distaste, slips out of his shoes and aims the window to open it a little. “This is where you’ve been staying the past four years?”

Derek flings a couple of axed logs into the fire and sits up. He walks back to the 2.5 plastic jug he placed by the door. Stiles rolls his chin, annoyed at being ignored. Derek then takes the jug in his hand and heads to a closed door to open it. Stiles catches sight of the bathroom, and all the happenings of that night race to him.

[“open up, I’m kinda itching to see you.”]

[“You carved your name on my back!” “Yeah, did you like it?”]

Stiles’ pulse raves inside his ears, threatening to make his head explode. He clutches at his chest and stumbles rearward. He pants in shallow, uneven breathes.

[“Your life is mine, you bastard. It’s the final rule. You have no right to end your life without my permission. If you do something like this again, I’ll make sure to bring you back and hurt you to the point you’re gonna want to die again, but you won’t, ‘cause I won’t let you.”]

He scurries to the front door, yanks it open and steps outside, a hand on his mouth. He scrambles down the set of steps and lands on the wet ground on four. He retches, vomiting his breakfast all over the small puddles.

It was a mistake to come here. He shouldn’t have followed Derek to the swamp of nightmarish reminders. He should have left the minute the man told him to go home. God, this is too much. He was going to kill himself in the bathroom of this cabin. He was going to give up. Heck, he even managed to send himself unconscious, and half hoped his tongue would block his airway.

He hears the door of the cabin creak, and he knows Derek is standing there, watching his miserable state. He always hated the hopelessness Derek planted in him, the fear and the despair. He always hated feeling his self-loathing reaching the brim and overflowing.

Now, it’s like it’s happening all over again: him yielding to his shadows, and Derek watching him being weak.

“Leave me alone!” He manages to holler, but soon retches again.

The door creaks after a minute.

The rain doesn’t fucking let up as Stiles remains on his four, wallowing in self-pity. He feels the joints in his back starting to protest, aching and pulling. There’s nothing to expel from his stomach, so he levers up to his feet, wobbling. He seriously considers going back to his apartment, the storm can go to hell. He examines the tall trees swaying under the brunt of the wind’s force, and the rain-full currents slapping him tirelessly. Then, a flash of lightening zaps again, illuminating everything like glaring headlights. And it’s soon followed by a clap of thunder. Stiles knows the risks of being outside in a storm like this, let alone walking through it. He collects himself and turns around. When he climbs up the set of steps, he finds a clay cup of water on the large handrail of the porch’s railing.

Stiles’ shoulders sag, and his former fighting spirit dissipates to melancholy and depression.

He walks inside the cabin again, cup in his hand. He finds Derek by the counter, rummaging around for something. Stiles trudges to the table and sits on the chair. He crosses his arms on the table and rests his head on them. He watches keenly how Derek takes two wooden bowls and a plate.

Derek dashes to the fireplace and lifts the four sardine skewers he must have placed there when Stiles ran outside. He brings them to the counter and places them on the plate. He also takes out a copper stockpot that has probably been through the two world wars, and puts it on the counter. He uses a wooden ladle to scoop rice from the pot and pour it into the bowls. He sets everything on a rustic tray with spoons to go with, and brings it to the table Stiles is currently sitting at.

“Wash up first,” He tells Stiles, now fanning down on the other chair.

Stiles nuzzles his arms, and soon feels a shudder running through him at the dampness of the sleeves of his jacket. He sits up, scrubs a hand over his face and groans.

“I told you to leave me alone, didn’t I?” He scowls at Derek.

Derek’s empty stare doesn’t change as he picks his share of two fish skewers and the bowl of rice. He picks his spoon and stabs it into the rice.

Stiles eyes his share of the food, his upset stomach complains again. He groans and drinks more of the water Derek brought him earlier. Derek is eating his food like hellhounds are on his tail. Watching him eat with such a big appetite makes Stiles hungry. He is hungry, but he knows the moment he’ll eat, he will get sick again, and that’s the worst part of the whole process. He perks up though, when Derek pushes his chair to the back, making it squeak and startle Stiles.

Derek heads back to the counter again, which he uses as the kitchen. He delves into the holes beneath, finally coming out with a small glass container. He comes back to the table, slams the container next to Stiles’ meal until the cutlery and the lantern shake.

“It's honey.” He said, “Eat a spoon of that to feel better.”

“Still playing doctor?” Stiles scoffs.

To his surprise, Derek actually pales, and his shoulders flinch. His hand that was aiming to lift his spoon stops mid-air, and his eyes widen.

Stiles, for a stupid second, wanted to take it back. It was childish and uncalled for, especially if all Derek did was offer treatment for his stomachache. However, the bitter tang of his vomit is still fresh in the back of his throat, and he blames Derek for it. So what’s so nuts about calling a reprisal?

Derek nibbles at his bottom pink lip for a moment, glistered with the oil of the sardines. He blinks sporadically before eventually jabbing the spoon into the rice again. He doesn’t stop until there are no scraps left. He lifts his bowl, spoon, and skewers, and heads to the front door.

Soon after Derek walked out, Stiles heard clinking and cluttering, and he assumed Derek was washing the tools. He seizes the moment of the man’s absence to drool over the delicious-smelling grilled sardine. He gets a throwback to the family BBQs during sunshine summer afternoons, Styrofoam cups and plates filling up the long, narrow table, and gleeful squeaks of children soaring in the backyard. All of it now encroached in darkness and despair that just doesn’t seem to want to leave him the fuck alone.

He pushes the plate away and leans back on the headrest of the chair, eying the logs forming the ceiling. He inhales and exhales, chest rising and falling.

 

Derek treads back inside, cutting off the howls of the wind by the slam of the door, startling Stiles again. He pays no heed to the vigorous jolt taking over the intruder’s body because of him, and kicks off his boots and carries on walking to the armchair by the window. He takes off his coat, hangs it on the handle of the window, and then he sits on the armchair, a hand stretching to peck out a book from the pile.

There’s a small voice deep within Stiles’ head, screaming, craving to be heard. He tries to listen to it, see its purpose. But all it gives him are flashbacks of Derek fucking him raw, rough, and deep. He lets out a strangled noise and drops his face on his hands. This is absolutely the worst! He isn’t getting hard again, especially not in front of this guy.

“Lose the jacket,” Derek suddenly demands.

Stiles’ entire body freezes. All his neurons rewire back to the state he was in back in that cell. How he’d crumble with just an order from Derek and usually capitulate to his desires. Now he wants him to strip? Don’t fucking joke about it, Stiles didn’t survive months of hell to only fall back in the same rut. He is stronger now, although people can argue about his mental health, but physically, he can take down a man the size of Derek.

He doesn’t lift his head when he says “Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”

Derek keeps silent for a beat before he chuckles, “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole.” He said, “I was just being thoughtful. I don’t give a damn if you catch a cold.”

So he was being thoughtful?

Stiles slowly starts to feel his cheeks growing hot, “Keep your concern to yourself.” he huffed, “I’m not getting undressed in front of you.”

“I’m not dying for it to happen.” Derek drawled, now turning the page of the book he’s reading.

“Sounds inconceivable,” he scoffs.

Derek propels his index on the page he’s reading and closes the book. He reels his head to Stiles and repositions himself of the armchair that creaks under his weight. “You seem to misunderstand something, Stiles.” He started, “The ‘psycho’ me who used to cut through your flesh may have been fascinated by you,” he said, “but I don’t give a shit about you. And I’m certainly not fascinated by you to want to see you unclothed.”

Stiles’ brows twitch at that.

“So stop thinking too highly of yourself, okay?” he advised, “You’re not that important to me as you may think.”

Stiles’ lips part, revealing his teeth. He sneers into his hands and soon barks a laugh. He lifts his face off his palms and faces Derek’s blank stare. “You son of a bitch,” he started, his eyes glowing in the dull lamplight, “you sick son of a bitch.”

“Why,” Derek asked, and firmly demanded, “because I don’t care about you anymore?”

Stiles keeps that half smirk plastered on, despite the rage boiling inside him.

“I don’t.” Derek asserted on a curt shrug before reopening the book again to read it.

Stiles stares at the man’s profile, a hand clutching at the edge of the table until the color leaves his knuckles. He gulps the lump lodged in his throat and sighs stiffly.

 

The sound of fire crackling and the wind whooshing outside carries on without a rest. The storm outside doesn’t get worse, but it doesn’t go away either. From time to time, Stiles hears the rustling of papers being turned, but other than that, the place is dead silent. He shoves the chair backward when he attempts to stand, the first movement he’s proceeded to execute in hours. He saunters lethargically to the bathroom and locks himself in.

The creak of the door is so ominous that Derek lifts his eyes off that page, scrutinizing the door Stiles’ just closed. He puts the book aside and goes to poke the sheen embers so the fire wouldn’t go out. Moments later, something inside the bathroom makes a small thud. Derek pivots his body to the closed door, and knocks.

“Are you still alive in there?” He asks, eyebrows slowly furrowing.

Stiles doesn’t reply immediately, but he does make another noise inside.

“What do I make of that?” Derek wonders, aloud.

“I’m okay,” Stiles grumbles, “just let me be.”

Derek remained by the door for a few more beats before returning to his armchair.

 

“This is bad,” Stiles moaned with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

He knew reliving the trauma could cause him discomfort and a little nausea, it’s understandable. This, however, is beyond painful. There is nothing to expel from his stomach, and he already emptied his bowels after waking up this morning. If he retches again, he is certain he’ll end up throwing up his lungs. His abdominal area is in severe pain that his face is starting to turn green, and his stomach keeps somersaulting. He is also dizzy and doesn’t know how to pull off the flames eating his body from within.

“This is so bad.”

He remains completely still with most of his weight reclining on the sink, afraid to knock off more than a shaving brush this time. One word of complaint from him and Derek will be there to offer help, or will he?

The bastard came clean about his feeling towards Stiles, the guy he raped in different positions. He didn’t even bat an eye talking about how caring about Stiles isn’t who he is anymore, so who’s to say his cry for help will go attended to. God, he should feel happy and light after the revelation, but this darkness twisting inside his chest and head, weaving conspiratorial plots…

He doesn’t know anymore.

When he eyed his reflection in the mirror, the copious amount of sweat over his pasty complexion sent him reeling down with worry and fear. He retches onto the floor, praying for relief–

“Take deep breaths, Stiles,” Derek cut off his chain of thoughts.

Stiles groans in response.

“You need to activate your parasympathetic nervous system,” his voice creeps through the slits in the door, disembodied. “You aren’t going to make yourself feel better if you worsen your anxiety.”

Whose fault is that, Stiles wonders.

“Open the door,” He suddenly ordered, “I can help.”

“Scram, Hale.” Stiles grouses. Pain stabs his abdominal section, and he folds in on himself, nursing his middle with a moan.

Derek spoke after a pause, “Take a deep breath in, and then let it out.” He instructs. “Repeat the process over and over until your stomach settles down.”

Against himself, Stiles followed the instruction. After a few minutes, the pain did not subside.

“Stiles, you really need to open the door for me to examine you.” There’s plea in his voice, it’s hilarious.

“What,” Stiles snorted, his bleary eyes sinking under his lids only to refocus again. “You suddenly care?”

“I can’t ignore you if you’re hurling your guts over my bathroom sink.”

“Don’t worry, you jackass.” Stiles said with a barely stifled whimper, “Nothing’s coming out.”

“All the more reason to let me examine you,” Derek insisted, “Look, severe abdominal pain is usually a sign of bad news. I know you don’t want me near you, and I don’t want to be near you either. But don’t place your health in jeopardy at a time like this, especially if I can help.”

The lock clicks and the door slides open. Derek is holding the lantern in his hand, and his eyes roam the narrow room to spot Stiles. He finds him slumped on the floor with his arms wrapped around his middle, shivering and pale. He crouches down very slowly, placing the lantern gently on the floor.

“Hey,” he coaxes as though willing a cat to tap his palm, “You look pretty done in.”

“Whoa, I’m impressed you could tell all that with just a glance.” Stiles sneers, but soon grimaces as another stab of pain pierce him.

“Come on,” Derek skids closer to him, “let’s take you out of here.”

Stiles allows the man to manhandle him back to the seat of the table. He sits him down and brings him another cup of water.

“First things first,” Derek begins, “take off your clothes. I’ll get you a new set ready.”

Stiles glowers fiercely at the man.

“You want to get better or not?” Derek finally fretted.

Stiles rolls his eyes and faces elsewhere. He heard rustling when Derek delved into the drawers of his cabinets, and then he brought the new set of clothes to Stiles.

“I won’t look.” He promised, “Just change into these and hurry.”

Stiles doesn’t move until Derek goes back to his armchair, eyes on the window. He starts taking the jacket off, and since it’s wet, it weighs more than it should. He takes off his t-shirt next, and when it goes past his head, he groans. By the time he reaches his belt loop, he is breathless.

Derek finally has enough. He sighs wearily and lifts off the armchair. “What’s the use of changing into dry clothes if you’re going to be this slow?”

“You said you wouldn’t look!” Stiles crouches, deer eyes widening in both: embarrassment and panic. He is embarrassed because Derek used to see him naked and it’s been years since then, and he feels panic because Derek might catch sight of the scars on his back.

“I did,” Derek agreed, now standing a stride-length away from the other. “But you were taking awfully long to strip.”

“That sounded vaguely sexual.” Stiles huffed.

“Here,” Derek pulls him by the belt loop, “I’ll lend a hand.”

He didn’t mean to. Stiles’ hand didn’t mean to smack Derek’s face. He didn’t realize what’s just transpired until the stinging in his hand doubled. He gapes at Derek’s face, a cheek redder than the other. “T-told you not to touch me,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “You had it coming.”

Derek’s eyes rise up, catching Stiles’. “That was uncalled for.”

He shudders, his pains going ignored. As he sees the cold stare in Derek’s eyes hardening like a bitch face, he realizes that, bit by bit, his cock is starting to react. He snatches the jacket from the backrest of the chair to cover his crotch.

“You’re troublesome.” Derek simply states, “Change into these and go to bed.”

Stiles lowers his head, and Derek walks to the kitchen. He seizes the man’s distraction to take his pants off, hating how his cock’s half erect. Eventually, he manages to change into the set of clothes Derek prepared for him: grey sweats. He wobbles his way to the bed before sprawling on it. Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to do as the vigorous shake aggravated his stomach pain. He turns on his side and folds himself into a ball, “this is the absolute worst.”

“You’re telling me.” Derek comments. He returns with a pack of bland crackers and more water. “I prepared some ginger ale, but it needs to heat up on the fire for a bit.”

Stiles sits up at last after a few grueling attempts, he eyes the saltine. “Thought you said you couldn’t even afford a biscuit.”

“This type of bland food won’t irritate your stomach,” Derek justifies, “now eat it, and shut up.”

Stiles eats it without another complaint.

Derek goes back to boiling the ingredients in a small saucepan, and the scent of ginger soon wafts in the cold air. A few minutes later, he lifts it off the fire and pours the content into a cup. He returns to Stiles’ bedside, handing him the cup. “Drink all of it.”

Stiles takes the cup from him and sips the ginger ale.

“You need to rest now,” Derek instructs, taking the now-empty cup from the other man, “Sleep off the fever if you want it to break sooner.”

Stiles’ incredulous stare lingers on Derek.

“What?” Derek bites out.

Stiles shrugs a shoulder and sinks back into the pillow, “You’re right about the resting part,” he says on a sigh, his eyes slowly close before he murmured “I’m so tired…”

 

Derek stands by the bed, blank eyes on Stiles’ sleeping face.

 

This is the guy his former psycho-self tortured and raped for months? This is the guy for whom his heart ached whenever the memories struck, this spoiled, overbearing and oversensitive guy?

He wants to laugh. Heck, he wants to wake Stiles up so they can both crack jokes about the entire setup. This world is a big fucking joke, and he’s always believed in that. It’s probably why Jennifer took advantage of it and made his twisted thoughts a reality. He tortured this guy, and ruined his youth. He knows he can’t judge his character, if there’s something fucked up, it’s on him.

He rakes a hand through the long strands of his hair.

Stiles falling terribly sick at a mere memory is not a good sign. At this rate, he won’t have a chance to at least atone. When Derek goes to sleep, he sees Stiles in his dreams. It’s been four years now, and the occurrence still happens. He is always either torturing or raping Stiles in those dreams, and no matter how much he fights it, he always succumbs to that dark side. He knows that, even though he’s no longer acting under the influence of hypnosis, there is still darkness inside him. He guesses everybody does, it’s a philosophical question of our human nature. However, that is not the issue here. Derek feels a part of him, buried inside, always hankering for release, and always calling out to Stiles.

Now, the bastard came back to make the work of years crumble.

All Derek wanted was to be left alone. It’s true he skipped the fire four years ago, but he didn’t wish for that life anymore. He doesn’t wish to be under the spotlight again, and he certainly doesn’t wish for a repeat of those years. Stiles being here raises all risks of that happening. This bastard, coming back so readily, acting like he fucking knows what he’s getting himself into…

Stiles groans faintly in his sleep.

Because of stupid anxiety, yes, he got this bad because of fear and anxiety, and built-up stress which he didn’t know how to handle. Now, his body is reacting badly, and Derek is stuck nursing him back to health.

He shakes his head.

Stepping closer to the bed, he pulls the cover higher and flings it over Stiles’ shivering body –then he hears that darkness within fucking drawling…

Delicious moans of pain! The image of this shivering, hopeless man, moaning beneath him, spread out and rammed into.

Derek recoils to the back, horror seizing him. “This isn’t fucking happening.”

 

When Stiles’ eyes fluttered open, the dim light told him it’s still night time. He grunts trying to sit up. “W-water…” But he finds nobody inside the cabin. He swivels his head in all directions, but Derek isn’t inside. “Derek?”

A wave of dizziness hits him like a sucker punch, and he grunts again. He knows it isn’t time to be incapacitated by a damn fever if he’s by himself and defenseless. He removes the blanket off of him and swings his legs off the bed. He immediately shivers when his soles touch the floor. He supported himself on the headboard of the bed to stand up, realizing it’s not the brightest move of his yet. The dizziness intensifies to the point of being painful. He braces himself and steps forward towards the bathroom. He opens it, but nobody is in there. His eyes catch spider-web cracks in the mirror, splattered in crimson.

“The hell happened in here?”

He walks away from the bathroom to the front door, and by the time he reaches the said door, he is panting like he’s just ended a NASCAR race on feet. His shaky hand reaches for the door handle, but someone opens it from the outside. Stiles stills when his eyes lock with Derek’s.

“What’ you doing outside bed?” Derek berated.

“I-I woke up” Stiles mumbles with his cheeks flushed, “you weren’t there… I…” he trails off, hoping the man will be able to fill in the blank.

So he panicked.

Derek scrubs his jaw, and rolls his eyes. “Even if,” he started, “you shouldn’t have left the bed, especially if you’re this sweaty.”

Stiles crinkles his face in distaste. “Nobody begged you to nurse me back to health, okay? I certainly didn’t!” he seethes, breathlessly.

“You’re in my place, acting sick.” Derek counters, “Of course I’m compelled to!”

“Don’t!” Stiles shouts, and the ringing in his ears go off. He closes his eyes and groans.

“You’re gonna pass out.” Derek pinpointed.

“You think I find this funny?” Stiles cracks his eyes open, glassy from fever and fatigue. “I wished to God you never existed. This isn’t easy for me!”

Derek stares impassively into Stiles’ bleary eyes, “I wish you died four years ago.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, and this pang in his chest drilling a hole, it expands more and more. Without his consent, his tears overflow like a flood. He shakes his head, and doesn’t even fight to hide his sobs anymore.

It’s mutual, what the hell did he expect, Derek getting on his knees to ask for his forgiveness…?

He lived with the man, he saw how he communicates. He never thought of himself under anyone, he was always above all. He was a sadist who relished the sorry state of others, especially Stiles’. This is no different from what the man used to be like. Changing scenery doesn’t change this man’s rotten personality.

“Cruel,” It comes out as an anguished sob before Stiles reigns it in.

Derek licks his lips, “Now go back to bed.”

Stiles runs trembling fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, and wills himself to calm his uneven breathing. “I’m leaving.” He mutters, faintly. “I feel better now, so I’ll just buzz off.”

“Don’t spout nonsense, Stiles.” Derek grumbles, shoulders sagging “You’re delirious from the fever, if you don’t rest enough, you’ll pass out.”

Stiles pins the man with a hard glare. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“I could say the same about you.” Derek retorts.

Stiles wobbles back to the table, pecking out his clothes.

“What’ you doing?” Derek demands, “Didn’t you just hear me?”

Stiles ignores him. The ringing in his ears becomes unbearable, and he tries to hold on. He clutches at the backrest of the chair, fighting the queasiness. He tries to word his discomfort, but it comes out mumbled and tired.

“I swear, you’re a fucking eyesore.” Derek rumbled before stepping right into Stiles’ personal space.

Stiles’ alarms go off, warning him about everything: his body that isn’t functioning, nor cooperating right. Derek on him again, planning to do God knows what, and, here he is, feeling miserable for himself.

Suddenly, he feels his body being lifted off the ground by marble arms. The room of logs swims in his vision, and he finds no better alternative but to close his eyes. The last thing his mind registers is the scent of earth and wood coating Derek’s body, and bit by bit, his heavy head fans backward on the nook of Derek’s arm.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Broken Crown - Mumford & Sons

 

 

The next morning dawns, bright and cold, Stiles groans awake. He gives his eyes a second to adjust, and then everything comes back to him: the storm, the pain, the cabin and Derek tending to him. God, he wants to erase himself from the face of the planet. Derek carried him bridal style to bed, how is Stiles supposed to let himself live it down.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened after he kicked his consciousness out of the window, but he knows Derek stayed far away from his vicinity. He is actually kind of grateful for that.

He sits up, taking in the empty cabin. He catches sight of a cloth on the table and guesses that’s his breakfast underneath, tucked and covered. He trudges towards the bathroom, expecting to see the broken mirror on which Derek crafted a spider web last night, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even understand why Derek punched the damn thing. If he was against Stiles hogging the bed, he’d have said so. Not that Stiles would have given it to him anyways. This actually makes him dredge up the kind of monologue going through Derek’s mind, or have been ever since Stiles popped up on him near the river bank.

For him, he hasn’t stopped thinking about Derek ever since their reunion. Even now, God damn, all he thinks about is Derek. And he’s expected to get his things and take off? There’s no chance in hell he would. He is here, and he might as well rebuild himself using the pile of trauma and nightmare source going as far as staying outside the cabin to ignore him.

 

There’s a note on the table that says (don’t come back). Stiles lifts it up, scrutinizes it and then crunches it into a ball.

He will come back.

 

Or so he said, and that was two weeks ago.

Ever since he came back from the cabin, the woods and the nightmares, Stiles wasn’t able to step foot into all of that again. He admits going to the entryway of the woods a few times but never having enough balls to actually venture inside. He doesn’t blame his nightmares or Derek, for that matter, which is hilarious, because he should. Derek made him relive the nightmares, and that eventually caused him physical, unbelievable pain. It’d have been certifiable if fear was the thing holding him back, but no. His body and mind work differently than that, and that’s something he’s come to realize, unfortunately, a bit late.

Soon after getting back to his apartment, two days later maybe, his nightmares started to manifest into something he’d long since thought was over. Those nights he’d spent, moaning, with his mind filled with thoughts of Derek’s face and hands. They were back with full force, dragging him down to this bog swamp of self-loathing and disgust.

He guesses meeting Derek again after all those years reignited what he’d spent most of his time trying to suppress. Now, as he sits on his desk chair, spinning from side to side and facing the window, appalling ideas start to wiggle into his mind. He doesn’t know what to do, and quitting his job sounds like a wise decision. He should. He also should move out, go far away from those eerie-looking woods. The part of him that still wants to fight voted against that, reasoning that Derek is the source of his traumas, and if he wants to grow out of them, he’d better face Derek again. However, the wise side of him vouched for a way out, somewhere distant from what’s causing Stiles physical pain.

 

6 P.M Friday finds him pacing by the cabin’s front door.

 

“What am I doing?” Stiles berates, “What in the world am I doing?”

A twig snaps in the background and Stiles whips around, eyes wide and wary. He finds Derek in the same clothes from two weeks ago, standing in the clearing with a bundle of fish in hand. Stiles’ entire body goes numb, and his mind becomes completely blank. Derek’s eyes remain on his, hard and vague, and then he lets out a full-bodied sigh. He steps forward, climbs up the few stairs and whooshes past Stiles. And to the latter’s surprise, Derek leaves the front door open.

Stiles swallows his hesitation and walks into the cabin.

As he stands by the door, he takes in the same furniture poised in the same position from before. He also watches how Derek places the fish on the counter to take off his coat. Stiles kicks off his shoes and steps inside, aiming for the chair at the table.

Again, the rest of the evening is spent in silence with Derek grilling the fish inside the fireplace. Stiles sat on the armchair and peck out a book from the pile, Touching the Void. He read up to three pages when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Do you even have any friends?”

“It’s true that I allowed you in, but that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate your chatter,” Derek said from his crouch by the fireplace.

“So what? Are you just going to pretend I’m not here for the rest of the night?” Stiles marvels.

“Are you staying here for the rest of the night?” Derek asks. There’s a hint of a groan in his voice.

“You want me to walk back these woods when it’s gotten this dark?” Stiles exclaims, “I know you’re kinda heartless, but try to be a little more sensitive, ok?”

“Then why can’t you?” Derek retorts.

Stiles arches up a brow at the man, a cue for him to explain.

“You’re back when I clearly told you to stay away,” he huffs, “I told you I didn’t want to have anything to do with you anymore, but here you are again, deliberately strolling within my territory.”

“Your territory?” Stiles scoffs, “Last time I checked, these woods weren’t yours.”

“But the cabin is,” Derek fires back, “And you’re harassing me.”

Stiles clicks his tongue and makes half a smirk, “You’re such a poor little thing, having this evil creature invade your privacy.” He said, his tone gushing with sarcasm. “Are you scared I’ll awaken your memories of being a psycho?”

Derek almost snarls, “You don’t want to go there.”

“You’re wrong. I do want to go there.” Stiles confirms, “But it’s unwise if it’s just me and you, isolated. There’s no telling of what you might do to me if your emotions are rattled.”

Derek then straightens up to full height.

Instead of fear, all Stiles feels is utter excitement.

“That’s right,” Derek’s lips pull into a cold smirk, “we’re isolated from everyone.”

A shudder runs through Stiles’ body, and he stills all motions, he doesn’t even know if he’s breathing anymore. When Derek suddenly faced the fireplace, Stiles felt neglected. He watches attentively how Derek takes the fish skewers to lay them out on the table, and that’s when he felt it: Him losing command over his own body.

He puts the book aside and stands up, his trembling hands fumble with the upper button of his flannel. He manages to unbutton it at last, and then he takes it off. At the sudden rustle, Derek reels around to understand what’s happening, only to find Stiles stripping off of his clothes. Stiles’ eyes don’t fail to pick up on the dismay slowly taking over Derek’s expression, but he doesn’t stop. He removes his t-shirt next, and trembles as cold air envelopes his upper body.

“What’s this?” Derek demands.

Stiles gropes the belt buckle, willing his shivering fingers to undo it.

“Stop,” Derek grits out, his body growing evidently taut. “What the hell is this?”

Stiles closes his eyes to the accusation in Derek’s voice and finally manages to get his jeans down to his ankles. He kicks them off at last, and then he stands by the armchair, naked from head to toe. He balls his fists at his sides and sighs.

“After you, I tried dating” he starts, “never worked out.”

Derek remains silent and motionless.

“I knew my body couldn’t respond to anyone but you,” he admits on a sad-stricken, self-derogatory smile. “After all, you’re the one who trained me.”

Derek lowers his head, but eyes remain wide and trembling. “Put your clothes back on.”

“I won’t,” Stiles insisted, “You caused this, now fix it.”

“I can’t,” Derek says, dejectedly.

“Why not?” Stiles persisted adamantly, round eyes bugging out, “You used to take whatever you wanted, and you never asked how I felt about it. I never had a chance to complain. You made me like this, Derek. You owe me!” He is shouting by the last words.

The fire crackled, interrupting the post silence.

“A broken toy can’t delight a child, Han.” Derek simply says before slumping down on a chair.

Stiles’ nostrils flare, “Stop speaking in backward codes, you asshole.”

“I’m saying I can’t help with that.” Derek dropped his face on his palm, “I don’t desire you in that way.”

Stiles feels as though he’s just been winded in the guts. “You don’t desire me?” He snorted, “Are you nuts! You spent months raping me in every position you’d think of!”

“That wasn’t me.” Derek explains, “The things the ‘me’ back then felt towards you dissipated years ago, ok? You think I’ll get hard seeing you naked?”

“I don’t care,” Stiles seethed, “You ruined every chance I’d have at normal, now take responsibility.”

This is absolutely great. The man who used to make up excuses to get into his pants is now so fixedly trying to not even look at his naked body. And Stiles is supposed to stand there and take it, what, didn’t the bastard hear what he’s just said.

The hand that was palming Derek’s face slips to the table, he balls it and then slams it on the wood. Stiles in the side flinches so hard. Derek slowly lifts his face; the glint of dark green, malevolent eyes shakes Stiles to the core. He lifts up unhurriedly, as though stalling on purpose to give Stiles a chance to reconsider.

To show him how disinterested he is, Stiles sits on the bed, turns on his side and folds his left knee.

**_Touch my mouth and hold my tongue_ **

**_I'll never be your chosen one_ **

Derek, then, saunters towards him with his heavy soles stomping on the plank. And Stiles closes his eyes. He didn’t reopen them until Derek stood by the bed, tall and silent.

**_I'll be home safely tucked away_ **

**_Well, you can't tempt me if I don't see the day_ **

Aside from his unsteady breaths, Stiles hears the fire crackling. He feels the light touch of air currents on his skin, raising the hair on it. Derek’s fingers land on the scarred name on his back, icy like a snowflake. Stiles hisses and Derek immediately lifts his hand off.

“It’s…” Stiles sighs, “You surprised me, that’s all.”

Derek rubs his hands against his thighs for a moment, and then he brings the same hand again to Stiles’ scars. This time, the man doesn’t hiss. He takes that as his cue to go further.

Stiles clutches at the bed sheets as Derek glides that hand down to fondle his ass. “None of that,” he gritted out, “I’m not here to cuddle.”

Derek stills his motions for a beat, and then scoffs. Stiles doesn’t even dare to ask the reason for it.

Derek thumps the puckered entrance, and although it keeps twitching: an indication of how much nervous Stiles is, he keeps nudging his finger against it. He doesn’t stop until three fingers fit and Stiles is a huffing mess beneath him.

“You’re ready,” he noted out, “but I’m not.”

Stiles perks up at that on his elbows, and he looks over his shoulder at Derek’s half erection. “I’m not sucking off that thing.”

“How do you suggest I penetrate you otherwise?”

Stiles shakes his head and fans back on his arms. “I’m never gonna blow you again.” Not after Derek used to beat him to it.

Derek behind him remains silent, and the rustling of his clothes suggests that he’s unzipping his pants. He crawls over the bed, his scent and warmth enveloping Stiles wholly. He grinds against Stiles’ ass, and the latter feels the half hard-on poking him. He braces himself for it. Derek’s cock slowly grows in size, excited to rub on different flesh.

The precum oozing out of Derek’s cock, and which the man is rubbing all over Stiles’ rim, results in wet noises. He didn’t allow this, but having Derek tease his prostate and not penetrate would be cruel to his body. Derek finally stops and lines the head of his cock with Stiles’ hole.

Here it comes; Derek’s cock…

He is taking his first step into a pit of absolute darkness, and no words are being exchanged.

Stiles stares at the wall, still blowing out little huffs. He keeps his knee folded so that Derek has enough space. Derek pushes in very slowly, and Stiles feels his entrance widening at the intrusion. Derek’s dick is inside him, again, after four years. Stiles opens his mouth and lets a deep groan lose. When Derek bottomed out, Stiles sagged on the sheets, breathless.

He never forgot this feeling. Not even one.

He knows it’s wrong, and his deceased friends deserve better. Stiles, however, could never stop his other half from hankering for this. Derek’s cock touching his insides, it simply fits. He clasps his hands on the pillow and pulls it under the side of his head, so that if he moaned, he’d mask the sounds.

Without a forewarning, Derek snaps his hips. Stiles yowls but quickly buries his mouth in the pillow to stifle the moans that soon follow. Derek braced his arms at either side of Stiles’ middle, and panted atop him.

Stiles folded his knee to his chest, welcoming the pressure more as Derek performed strong piston thrusts against his prostate, rocking his entire body and making the bed creak noisily, eventually making him sob his moans.

**_The pull on my flesh was just too strong_ **

**_Stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_ **

Derek’s dick is making him moan, and other than the crackling of the fire this time, all he hears is the wet slapping of skin on skin as Derek thrusts into him, and the latter panting. Stiles flings his arm to the back, probing Derek’s side and finally presses at his ass-cheek, “faster…” he sobbed, “Cumming…”

 

So rough, so strong and deep and Stiles is going out of his freaking mind. His eyes roll under his lids as he sends his cum over the sheets. The tightening of his muscles forced Derek’s cum out as well. He fans down on Stiles panting shallowly.

“Get off.” Stiles barked.

Derek lifted off just as quickly, he sat up and slowly slid his cock out.

“I didn’t say you can pull out.” Stiles bites out, “we’re far from done.”

Derek stares blankly at him.

Stiles shifts a little to lie flat on his stomach. He spreads his legs with his cock nestled between his thighs, and peeking from under his ass cheeks.

“But this position” Derek trails off.

“What, you used to find satisfaction in my pain, you bastard,” Stiles huffed. “Don’t act like you care now.”

Yes, having Derek thrust inside him in this position is going to be painful, but accompanying pain, there’s pleasure. So while Stiles bears with the pain, he gets to feel utter pleasure as well.

**_Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_ **

**_'Cause when I opened my body I breathe in a lie_ **

Derek then penetrates Stiles again, his knees on either side of the man’s hips. When he thrusts fast into him, it’s wanton, instinct-driven movements, like a damn dog in a rut.

 

Derek lingers kneeled on the bed, just watching how his cum trickles down from Stiles’ ass hole and down to the bed cover, adding to the pool of cum Stiles himself created. Stiles passed out soon after Derek ejaculated in him so much it’d impregnate any other woman, so he savors up this private moment to behold Stiles for his entire splendor.

He smirks…

His name is still scarred on Stiles’ back, engraved on it like the man is his fucking property. This is absolutely great. He fucked Stiles senseless again, and he didn’t have to force the man into anything. The guy invited him to do this with his own free will, and Derek even gave him a few moments’ of leeway to change his mind. He fucked him so deep like Stiles was his Onahole, and he didn’t even care if Stiles screamed in pain, he fucking wanted this.

**_I will not speak of your sins_ **

**_There was a way out for him_ **

**_the mirror shows not_ **

Having Stiles sprawled beneath him, vulnerable and sexed-out, is absolutely great.

**_Your values are all shot_ **

**_But oh my heart, was flawed I knew my weakness_ **

He suddenly frowns.

What in the world is he thinking...? Isn’t it enough that Stiles passed out? What else does Stiles have to go through for Derek to understand how messed up their situation is. Stiles demanded this, so maybe that’s his version of torture. This is the part of that hell he wanted Derek to relive. This could be troublesome, and in equal part catastrophic.

In any case, he is certain that, after tonight, Stiles won’t come back.

**_So hold my hand consign me not to darkness..._ **

 

It’s like time stops here at midnight so that yesterday recurs. Stiles wakes up, only for his eyes to catch the logs forming the ceiling. He listens as birds chirp and flutters their wings on the window sill. He listens at the rustle of trees, peaceful and calming.

Derek is, again, nowhere to be seen.

Stiles sits up, and the cover falls off his chest, revealing the warm skin that quivers under the assaulting morning cold. He pulls the cover from the hem up to his neck and scowls. The front door creaks open, and as Stiles turns to scowl at it, Derek marches in, a plastic bag in his hand. He grinds to a halt after closing the door when he sees that Stiles is awake and still in bed. Stiles’ bearings give way under the penetrating gaze, and soon he finds his cheeks getting hotter. A flash of the previous night’s happenings on this very same bed appears, so he lifts the hem of the cover up to his nose. Derek looks away and down at his boots, he kicks them off and walks in. Stiles, nested under the cover, watches how Derek places the bag gently on the counter and starts taking off his coat.

“Go wash up.” He suddenly instructed, now closing the window which Stiles thought has been closed till now. No wonder he’d heard the birds.

Stiles crinkles his nose at the idea. He is not leaving this warm nest to go wash his face with freezing water. “I’m good.”

Derek looks over his shoulder, blankly.

“What?” Stiles hissed, “I’m not washing my face with Hoth water, I’d freeze to death!”

Derek rolls his eyes and carries on to the ‘kitchen’ area.

Stiles returns his mouth under the cover and shivers.

Yesterday, he stripped and offered his body to Derek without a moment’s thought, and it’s scary: he should be furious at himself and at his horrible decisions, but he isn’t. Last night’s sex was very satisfying –the most satisfied he’s felt in years. He is a little bit, though, remorseful. When he thinks about his dead friends, and his best friend, who suffered just as much, this guilt starts to nag at him.

“Put this on,” Derek interrupts his thoughts, “We don’t want you freezing to death, now do we?”

Stiles looks up and a piece of clothing smacks him on the face, he swipes at it and finds that it is a maroon hoodie. He quickly dons it and returns his arms and shoulders under the cover. “What’s for breakfast,” he demands, “fish and rice again?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Derek simply replied.

“You’re slowly turning into one of those dudes who live up to 40 years of complete isolation,” Stiles said, “starting to sound like one, too.”

Derek opens the bag, and all Stiles gets for his remark is the scratching noise of the bag being parted. As Stiles nudges the pillow against the headboard to lean on it, Derek comes up to him with a small dish. Stiles inspects the triangle piece of pie on it and then returns his gaze on Derek’s.

“It’s not gonna eat you.” Derek reminded.

Stiles huffs and takes the plate from him, and then takes the fork as well. Derek returns to the table and drops down on the chair, his plate cluttering on the table.

“Where did you get this?”

“I have my own pie-farting unicorn at the back of the cabin.”

Silence prevails for a beat, and then Stiles snorts.

“Smartass,” He shakes his head and stabs the fork into his piece of the pie.

“An old lady downtown prepares it for me,” He starts, “She puts it on the ridge of her window every Saturday morning.”

Stiles’ lips have parted open at some point, and he quickly presses them together when he comes to the realization. “Wow,” he marvels, “you must be like the mysterious tooth fairy then,” he joked, “Instead of teeth, she gives you a pie.”

Derek eats in complete silence again.

“She must be a nice person to do that for you.” Stiles added.

“Everything’s been steered into one direction,” Derek suddenly speaks, eyes on his piece of the pie, and for a moment, Stiles thinks the man is talking about the pie. “People stopped doing things for themselves; they do it to get praise instead. Living up to everyone’s expectations is very tiring, and not to mention moronic.”

“What’s wrong with a little praise?” Stiles defended, “not all people aspire for that, but we don’t have the right to condemn those who need it.”

“After sketching your family poster, maybe,” Derek scoffed, and added, “You die alone.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, forehead scowling. “Just what exactly are you trying to get at?”

“That people reach full maturity at age 25,” He reasons, which made Stiles cock his head in more confusion. “Praise or not, as long as you’re breathing, you don’t need anyone’s recognition for your achievement.”

Stiles, for the five seconds he allowed the silence to prevail, he wills his mind to look for what instigated this. He told Derek that the person who gives him pie must be nice, and that and this are irrelevant. Stiles has no idea what kind of monologue is going on inside Derek’s head –wait… “Are you trying to say that you’re thankful to the lady who prepares the pie for you?”

Derek’s upper lip and brows flinch. He quickly resumes eating again, frowning in feign concentration.

Stiles cups his lips to keep them from stretching into a smile.

This is what a grateful Derek looks like...?

After another beat of silence, Stiles places the dish on the bedside drawer, resignation taking over. “Listen, once a week, I’ll come to your cabin and leave on the same day.”

Derek holds off all motions, and then only his eyes lift up.

“I have Saturday free, and you don’t exactly run a business here,” He scoffs, “You give me what I want on a Saturday, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the week.”

“Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” Derek tilted his head a bit, perplexed.

“Yea, except if you agree to the deal, I’ll leave on the same day.”

Derek mumbles a “would be fine if you leave forever,” before biting a portion of his pie.

“No more staying over, and no more hogging the bed because you obviously seem to have a problem with that,” Stiles goes for lighthearted, but his humor is met with silence again, “Or I can just return here whenever I want.”

Derek dumps the last bit of the pie into his mouth and stands up. He lays the dish on the counter again, picks his coat from the fastener and slips it on. “Don’t come after dusk,” He says over his shoulder and makes for the front door again.

Stiles’ brows fly up under his fringe, and as he watches Derek slipping into his boots, a smirk invades his plump lips.

 

The next Saturday rolls in quickly.

Stiles buys some snacks, and in his pace outside the grocery store, contemplating whether this is a good idea or not. His legs end up carrying him to the nearest pharmacist. He shamefully hides his purchased items in the chest pocket of his jacket and trudges towards the woods.

He’s overturned this in his head countless times the past few days. He even sought professional help online but eventually chickened out when the questions got too deep and personal. He doesn’t even know why he’s walking towards the cabin, but he knows Derek is in there, and something in him is fucking drawn to the man and the past that connects them together. Derek can try and deny this all he wants, but when it’s all said and done, his memory of Stiles is the only thing he’d never be able to erase, and no amount of hypnosis this time can alter the fact, change it or erase it.

The cabin starts to come into view, and with every step closer, Stiles’ heart pounds faster and faster. He sees the smoke that seeps out of the chimney and immediately knows Derek is inside. He walks up to the door, knocks one time and pushes the door open. He peeks through the slightly opened door and finds Derek on the armchair, wearing a crewneck pullover and bleached jeans, relaxing and reading a book.

He clears his throat and steps closer to the table. He rests the bag of snacks on the table to take off his jacket. “Brought some snacks, supposing you didn’t have dinner yet.”

Derek closes the book, flings it over the pile of other dusty books and stands up. Stiles arches a brow, attentively watching the change in the endeavor that heralds something, and it’s not anything good.

“Alright,” Derek looked at him, “I don’t have the entire afternoon, get on the bed.”

Stiles frowns.

“Like I said,” he gritted out, “let’s get it over with.”

Stiles’ frown morphs into… nothing. He hangs the jacket on the backrest of the chair and starts unbuckling his belt. Derek, in front of him, crosses his arms over his broad chest and flares his nose. Stiles reads the annoyance in Derek’s gestures and quickens his movements. Like all the times Derek hated to be kept waiting. He finally takes his pants off but keeps his Henley on. He traipses to the bed and sits on it. Derek uncrosses his arms and also steps to the bed. He watches how Stiles spins around and crawls on four, and then remains in that position.

Derek grumbles for some reason, and Stiles has a good idea or two why. He isn’t going to give oral, and Derek needs to wrap his head around it. If he wants to get hard, he can just do the same thing he did last time. It worked, it will again.

Derek kneels on two behind him and unzips his jeans to allow his cock out. He holds Stiles by either side of his hips and starts rubbing his cock against the man’s rim, very, very slowly. Stiles closes his eyes, savoring up the unbelievable feeling. His tongue snakes out, licking his upper lips before he bit on the bottom one. Derek uses his thumbs to part Stiles’ ass cheeks, and he bumps the head of his cock against the now precum-slicked hole. Stiles lets out contented sighs, and unbeknownst to him, he starts rolling his ass.

No words make their way out of their mouths, only shallow breaths.

Derek stopped rubbing against Stiles’ rim when his cock grew in size. He doesn’t even wait to consent Stiles as he thrusts into him all the way in. Stiles almost falters. He cries and keeps his narrowed eyes on the wall.

“Bastard,” He berates. “How about a little warning before you ram your thing in. You didn’t even prep me.”

“Oh, my bad” Derek mused, “Didn’t think I was supposed to do that for you as well.”

“Take it out,” he suddenly demands, “I don’t want to feel pain from this.”

“Like I said,” Derek breathes out, “I don’t have time.”

“You running a lemonade stand, you piece of shit?” He chides, “Take it out before you tear me.”

“Alright,” Derek acquiesced but didn’t take his cock out. “But I’m not putting it back in.”

Stiles balls the cover in his fists and flares his nostrils. “Take it out.”

Derek pulls out with such a force that sends Stiles fanning down on the bed. He tucks his cock under his boxers, and lifts up to zip his fly.

“Wait,” Stiles groans, “I bought lube. You don’t have to do anything, but give me a minute.”

Derek eyes the defiant look in Stiles’ eyes and can’t help but smirk. “Fine, but make it quick.”

Stiles swings his legs outside the bed and rushes to his jacket, and then he takes out the lube and bolts to the bathroom. Derek sits on the bed, twines his fingers and props his chin on them. He gives it exactly two minutes before he lifts up. He heads to the bathroom and plasters his mouth closer to the door.

“I’m leaving.”

“I’m almost done,” Stiles reports, “You can’t just leave.”

“Close the door before you go back.”

The door to the bathroom is suddenly yanked open, and Stiles shows up, breathless, cheeks coated in pink and hair disheveled. Derek observes him silently.

“I’m done.”

Derek shakes his head. “Next time” he said, “I need to go now.”

“Not fair,” Stiles bellowed, “We had a deal, Derek. You can’t just back away.”

Derek crunches his face like he’s heard the reiteration of the accusation countless times, now he just can’t bring himself to care. “I get it,” he huffed, “You want to come, right? Turn around.”

Stiles flings him that incredulous look, and slowly swivels around. Derek presses up against him, and he gasps at the suddenness of Derek’s movement. He feels the man pushing him into the bathroom, and he allows it because he is promised an orgasm.

Derek glides a hand down to Stiles’ erect cock and fists it, making the man yelp in surprise again. He starts rubbing it off, long strokes on Stiles’ shaft that make the latter groan. He alternates between using both hands; one caresses the head and the other the shaft of the cock.

Stiles’ knees weaken, and he slips to the floor, bringing Derek with him who decided not to haul him up. Derek leans back against the wall and helps Stiles lean back on his chest.

Stiles curls his toes and clutches at Derek’s knees. The feeling of two skillful hands doing their thing on his cock is mind-blowing, and he wants to drown in the sensation. He lets out continuous small moans and sighs. He parts his eyes open when he feels Derek’s cock hard and poking his lower back. He hurls forwards and drops on his knees and hands, and he is a little glad that Derek didn’t take his hands off.

“You’re hard,” he notes out. “You’re rock hard!”

Derek fans on Stiles’ back and groans. “Be quiet.”

Stiles shifts to brace himself on his forearms, his ass still in the air, pressing against Derek’s hard-on. He loses himself in the way Derek is jerking him off and the way he is humping his ass. It doesn’t last, though. Derek is soon letting go of Stiles’ cock and kneeling properly on two. Stiles beneath him makes a strange strangled noise, like he’s just been denied orgasm, Derek muses. He unzips his fly again and takes his cock out, and it’s like Stiles said, it’s rock-hard. He nudges it against Stiles’ ass hole, and he fucking hears Stiles gulp in anticipation. He pushes all the way in again, grunting at the tightness and the heat welcoming him.

Stiles mewls whorishly as his cum pours to the floor.

“From mere penetration…” Derek marvels.

Stiles gives himself a moment, just lying there, willing the chill in his spine to go away already.

Derek, though, doesn’t have time for that. He braces his hands one at each side of Stiles’ head, and then he moves. Stiles remains on his forearms, teeth nibbling at the back of his hand, with his ass in the air for Derek to pound and fuck. His mind and body slowly sink under the tidings of pleasure Derek sends with every reckless thrust of his hips.

 

Stiles sagged to the floor again after Derek ejaculated inside of him. When he plopped his middle on the floor, the action caused all the semen Derek pumped inside him to spill out.

Derek cleans himself at the sink and retreats from the confined room. He fetches his coat and finally exits the cabin.

Stiles blinks sporadically at the moldered walls, his fingers twitch when cold currents of air catch him, courtesy of Derek lacking the good grace to close the door after leaving. He remains there on the floor, just hating and feeling disgusted with himself…

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

The next Saturday was quick to arrive, too.

Stiles follows his usual routine, but this time, he actually preps himself because he knows Derek isn’t going to do it for him. Last time, if he didn’t stop the bastard, he’d have seriously given him an anal fissure. He still remembers how those used to hurt back during his captivity.

Instead of just snacks, Stiles purchases a tent heater and a throw. And instead of a bit late, he goes to Derek’s cabin a little earlier than usual. Last time, he returned home late. He’s already been hearing people getting attacked by boars; he doesn’t want to be the next victim.

The sky today is clear, but despite the sun, it’s still chilly. As Stiles walks up the street, he feels the tip of his nose getting stabbed by the unremitting cold. He enters the woods at last. Between last Saturday and today, he’s berated himself in hopes to give up whatever this he’s started, but it was to no avail. He just can’t seem to bring himself to do anything besides trudge in these woods. He doesn’t understand it either, and he was telling the truth when he first prepositioned this to Derek. After four years, Stiles wanted to try going out again. He went out with Theo, the dude who worked part-time at a bakery. They kissed a few times, nothing more than a peck. It’s just he doesn’t find people interesting anymore, not as he used to anyway. Heck, he used to profile people because it was fun, and girls used to find that quite sexy about him. He nixed all of that after his return home from all that hell.

He is certain now that his body can’t and won’t react to anyone if it’s not Derek.

Being trained for over four months did something to his body; it made it crave the touch of two hands no longer want to get dirty touching him, and it’s entertaining: watching himself fall into the depths of degradation.

The cabin’s chimney isn’t coughing any soot, and Stiles stops in his track. He hears the thwack of wood being chopped by something metallic. With a Fleet-footed bolt, he brisked his pace and finally showed up at the clearing of the cabin. He finds Derek, shirtless, axing a log. Stiles stands rooted to his spot, watching Derek being himself for he hasn’t caught up on the new presence yet. He is wearing the bleached jeans and the boots, flannel tied around his waist. He lifts the heavy axe and swipes at the middle of the log, his sweat-soaked fringe flutter with every jerk of his muscles.

A balmy breeze moves Stiles’ hair, and Derek is soon paying attention to him.

Stiles looks away, steps forward and towards the cabin. “Keep the shirt off.” He throws over his shoulder.

Inside, he places the bags on the floor and goes in farther to stand by the table. He hears the door creak open, and he doesn’t wait. He starts working on the button of his pants.

Derek saunters his way.

When Stiles slid his pants to his ankles, Derek unzipped his fly.

“Do I have to wait again?” He wanted to know.

Stiles shakes his head, turns around and leans on the table. “It’s taken care of.” He assured, “do your part of the bargain now.”

Derek gives his cock a few strokes with a hand, and the other nudges at the puckered entrance. It’s wet and a little red and puffy which asserts Stiles’ statement. Stiles claps his hands at the edge of the table until color leaves his knuckles. Derek stops his ministrations seeing that his cock is hard and ready, and he dives into the tightness and heat again, groaning his approval.

Stiles bites his bottom lip to keep from making any noises, but he finds that’s almost impossible because Derek’s dick wreaks havoc, that’s what it does. He keens and forces his eyes shut. Derek hoped the other would come from being penetrated like last time, so he’d wrap things up quickly, but Stiles is holding on. Derek thrusts in him again and again, until Stiles can’t take it and comes all over the table. He fans on it with his heaving chest, and he brings the back of his hand to his lips, nibbling at it.

Derek pulls away until only the head of his cock is buried in, and he waits.

Stiles props up on his hands now, almost standing askew, and buckles against Derek cock, taking it all back in. He repeats it when Derek groans. Again and again, until Derek can’t stifle his moans and sighs anymore. Stiles stands up and rests his weight on Derek’s, his head on the man’s broad shoulder.

Derek can’t believe how resilient this asshole is, taking all of him in and swallowing him whole. He hooks an arm around Stiles’ middle to bring him closer, and the other to the cock crying for attention.

“It’s… sensitive.” Stiles moaned hotly, “it’ll hurt if you touch it.”

“It looks pretty happy in my hand.” Derek droned inside Stiles’ ear, and he senses the way the man trembles before he feels warm fluid coat his hand. He scoffs, “You came again.”

Stiles’ head lolls on Derek’s shoulder, and his pupils sink under his lids. “Shocker.” He hacked, now smirking.

Derek frowns and hugs both his arms around Stiles very securely. He bends a little, and then he snaps his hips at a speed that catches Stiles off-guard.

“Bastard…!” Stiles hollers and clasps at Derek’s arm with a hand and the other goes to the smooth black hair. “God… feels great!” He clutches at the strands and grits his teeth together.

Derek’s frown deepens as he continues to groan into Stiles’ ear, the side of his forehead pressing up against the warm cheek.

Stiles feels his mind melting, and nothing in him works except pleasure receptionists. “Fuck me harder…” he moans breathlessly, “Gah– it feels so good.”

Derek closes his eyes and speeds his thrusts, the deep sound of skin hitting skin echoes in the small cabin until Derek shoots burning come inside Stiles. The latter drops on the table while Derek takes his cock out immediately. He watches how semen gushes out of the now-puffy hole, spilling down Stiles’ thighs every time it twitches.

Stiles hears a door open and close and assumes that Derek has just locked himself in the bathroom. He reminds himself of the deal, so instead of lingering there to who knows how long, He painstakingly puts his pants back on, his shoes too, and then leaves.

 

Stiles has been trying to fit 40-hour workweek into 16 hours. Saturday was looming in, closer and closer with each passing minute. He hated the rush that usually proceeded Christmas holiday. There was absolutely no excitement or looking forward to the day off because he vouches for more, one day isn’t going to cut it for him.

Taking a fervent glance at his watch, he noticed how late it’s gotten. He collects the rest of the reports that are due tomorrow and heads out, flinging a ‘good night’ to the janitor outside the school gate. He walks back home, prepares dinner after changing and all, and then resumes working on the reports.

He wakes up the next morning groggy and achy. He realizes he nodded off at some point last night and spent what was left of the night sleeping on the couch. The only good thing he managed to achieve from his impromptu doze is the fact that all the reports have been worked on, now ready to be submitted in. He checks his phone for any missed calls or unread texts, and finds a short text from his father asking him about his plans for the 25th of this month. He sends back a short text as well, letting his father know that he hasn’t decided on anything yet.

For breakfast, he gulps down some juice from the half-empty cartoon that’s going to go back in another two days, and then he gets dressed again. He brings the papers he’s expected to hand in together and heads out. Inside, he finds the music teacher by her desk, shuffling through a log of some sort. He greets her, and she immediately shied when their eyes met. Stiles places the files on the vice principal’s desk, and then he waves bye to the shy teacher again before finally exiting the room.

As he walks back towards the apartment building, biting cold currents of air pierce his face. His eyes catch the apparition of high mountains behind thick layers of fog that is surrounding the little town like satin sheets. He notes it in his head to watch the weather forecasting later before heading to Derek’s. He predicts a vortex of snow that might reach this town by the beginning of next week, and he doesn’t have to levitate down from the heavens with holy music to tell that much. He is just upset that he has to be here when it snow, he absolutely can’t stand it. And just to be sure, he opens the calendar on his phone screen, and it starts to dawn on him why his father wanted to know about his plans. The 25th is going to meet the weekend, so instead of just one day off, he is going to be lucky to have four.

This warrants other plans than spending Christmas night cooped up inside that rundown sardine can of an apartment. He can take his motorbike back home and spend the holidays with his family, and he won’t have to worry about food or school for four freaking days. If he goes home, he’ll bathe in congenial company, and gorge down home-made meals.

At the same time though, he finds himself unable to hope for any of that when he thinks of how Derek is in the cabin by himself.

The man’s been living there by himself for years, and it should be taken for granted. Stiles knows Derek chose the isolation on purpose, and he is even content that the world thinks he died in the fire four years ago. Stiles wants to cut the man some slack, but the way his mind operates makes him wonder if it’ll be a good thing to leave here for four days. He knows that between each Saturday, Derek passes the days alone.

But it’s just so lonely.

Around three in the afternoon, the ache Stiles felt this morning after waking up intensified, accompanied by a fever. He guessed passing out on the sofa uncovered brought the gift. Now as he sits there at the restaurant’s booth by the window, unfinished meal on his table, he starts to debate whether he can go to Derek’s cabin or not. He is aware that more exertion will only spike the fever up, and trudging inside the woods is exertion enough. Yet, this part of him, the part he’s always fought to quench, rebels against the idea. The deal was Saturdays only, so he doesn’t know how Derek would react if he dropped by on a Wednesday. The man is fucking unpredictable. What’s more, Stiles can’t get what’s going on through the man’s head whenever Stiles drops his pants and parts his legs.

Derek gets hard, despite everything he said the first time Stiles undressed in front of him. His cock shouldn’t get erect if he really didn’t desire Stiles the way he used to four years ago. As expected, Derek’s high and mighty talk crumbles to the floor when he is fucking Stiles’ ass.

Stiles doesn’t know if it’s the fever or these thoughts that rid of his appetite, he bets on the latter.

 

By the time he walked out, rain-charged clouds have already conquered the town. He adjusts the collar of his jacket and jogs to a nearby thrift shop. He purchases a hooded flannel and two jeans, and he also buys an insulated jacket. Next, he heads to a grocery store and buys anything edible. He also doesn’t forget to buy condoms. Derek always ejaculates inside of him, and it causes him uncomfortable stomach aches afterward. After exiting the door of the shop, he seriously considers riding his bike. He’s already carrying a lot of bags, and with the rain falling nonstop like this, everything he’s purchased might ruin. He takes another look at his clock to see if he can make it, but it’s half past four, and Derek has expressly said for him to come before dusk. No, not really; he didn’t. Still, for Derek to talk, that’s something. He forgets about using his vehicle today, and instead, rushes to the woods on his legs.

 

Stiles bursts through the door of the cabin like he was pushed inside by someone. He swivels around to shut the door, lock it in the face of the unrelenting storm. The crackling of fire greets him, along with a familiar silence. He reels around again, hoping to spot Derek on the armchair. He does. Stiles’ been to hell and back. He survived a car crash, he survived epilepsy, and he even survived months of torture. He bounced back from all of that –anyone else wouldn’t. But he is, suddenly, taken aback by the flutter of his heart when his eyes met Derek’s. He found him in the armchair by the fireplace with a book in his hand.

Stiles felt his heart flutter.

He doesn’t know if it’s the fever acting up, or what. He knows his heart always fluttered whenever Derek was spotted by his eyes or heard by his ears, and even his stomach used to churn. However, this kind of flutters is different. Oh God, too different.

Derek’s unfathomable face contorts as if he’s just been told dogs can fly. He closes the book and flings it to the pile. He stands up at the same time Stiles’ kicks off his boots. He goes to the nightstand to take out a small towel, and then the two of them walk towards each other and stop by the table.

“Dry your hair first” Derek tosses the towel to Stiles, and it lands on his chest.

Stiles let the bags drop by his legs to clutch a hand at the towel. He feels droplets of water slide down his face to accumulate under the tip of his jaw. He quickly drops the towel on his head and starts ruffling.

Derek snorts, and the other looks up. “It’s just” he started, “You take this deal too seriously.”

“There’s only one Saturday in a week,” Stiles justified.

“Even if,” Derek crossed his arms over his broad chest, shrug deceptively good-natured. “It’s not ‘fuck or die’, Stiles.”

Said man lets the words sink home and then he glares furiously at him, “I’m here, so we might as well fuck.”

Derek blows out a small sigh, “But are you sure?” he wondered, now running appraising eyes over him. “You don’t look too well.”

Stiles actually marvels at the fact that Derek could pinpoint his condition. He quickly shakes his head though, dismissing the sharp observation. “Just a slight fever,” he admitted, now sliding the towel off his head, “I’ll be fine.”

Derek says nothing to the obvious lie.

Stiles walks past him and to the bed, “I’d have taken a shower if you actually had hot water running.”

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t a five stars hotel,” Derek seethed.

Stiles’ hands swipe at the lapses of his jacket but fail to get the garment off. He curses and mutters swear words to no one. Suddenly, he feels larger hands help him take the damp jacket off.

“You too,” he whispers, breathlessly. “Lose the sweater.”

“Yea, yea” Derek says, he scowls at the heat vibes rolling off Stiles. “Undress first, and then I’ll follow.”

Stiles prods the hems of his pullover and then starts tagging at them, finally getting it off his head with Derek’s aid. When the piece of garment went past his face, the room swirled in his head. He fans back on Derek with a barely stifled groan, “So dizzy.”

Derek leads Stiles to the side of the bed and sits him down. “You should lie down.”

Stiles shakes his head in disapproval, but the movement only causes the room to spin more. He grunts and drops back on the sheeted mattress, slightly wet strands spilling on the cover. “Lie down with me.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He kneels on the bed and works on Stiles’ zipper. He takes his jeans off eventually, stripping him down to his boxers.

Stiles makes soft noises before finally passing out.

Derek tucks him under the cover and nestles his head on the pillow, and then he adds the throw Stiles brought last Saturday over the cover. He stands up, zeroing in on the sleeping man and trying to figure out his next step. He picks out the towel Stiles dropped and rinses it in cold water. He returns to Stiles’ side and puts the towel on his burning forehead.

 

The howl of the wind developed to prolonged whistles when the clock hit 2 in the morning. Stiles squirms under the covers and finally cracks his eyes open. He groans and props his head off the pillow, making the towel slip off. He looks around at the dim room, dazedly, finding Derek on the armchair again. Derek has prompted up at the muffled groan and was now looking at Stiles who looked half asleep.

“What time is it?” He wanted to know.

“A little past two,” Derek provides.

Stiles pouts like a freaking kid denied access to candy. “It’s still early,” he said, and adds, “And cold. Come to bed, Der.”

The man arches a surprised brow. “Is it ok?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s your bed, after all.” Saying so, Stiles sinks down into the pillows with a huff.

Derek shrugs and tiptoes to the bed, wincing every time the panels moaned under his soles. He crawls into the bed from the other side, and apparently, Stiles notices the dib of the added weight. He turns to lie on his back, his sleepy eyes trying to find Derek. Derek is kneeling on two, motions hold off in hopes for Stiles to fall back asleep, but the man latches weekly at his clothes.

“It’s so cold. Hurry.”

Derek takes off his coat and drapes it over Stiles, and then he slides under the covers and lies on his side. He pauses suddenly when Stiles clings to him, shivering and muttering nonsense. Derek gets the hem of the cover up to his ear. He watches with rapt how Stiles, still shivering like a leaf, nuzzles up against his chest. He bets he’s savoring up some body heat, so he lets him be.

As Derek rests there on his side, a mop of brown hair buried under the covers and huddled to his chest is all he can see from his angle. He assures himself that he has never seen this side of Stiles; clingy, and spoiled with a hint of childishness. He doesn’t know what he should contribute the causes. He knows Stiles hates him with a passion that could set these woods on fire. He thinks back on the events from four years ago and, although he can’t remember much from the times he was under hypnosis, he remembers the dreams he used to see. He also remembers the time he saw Stiles in his clinic with his friend. The two of them had looked like the world had interest in nothing but making them miserable, and they looked like they had lost their trust in everything but themselves. As soon as Derek saw him, flashes of obscene dreams he’d been having about the man resurfaced, and he felt like Stiles had the answers. It didn’t make sense that time because he’d never seen Stiles before that day, and it was strange to feel the familiarity.

The aftermath of the accident rattled him. He lives in shame, guilt, and fear, but it really can’t compare to what Stiles is still going through, which doesn’t add up.

Stiles withstood four or five months of daily torture. He always tried to resist but, with his friend held hostage and as leverage, he always succumbed to Derek’s demands. Every day, he tried to not lose his sanity, and he tried to keep his hope alive that they’d be saved, and that Derek would get what he deserved. It worked.

But it still doesn’t add up.

The way he is curled up and nestled against his chest –the man who took his innocence away, it doesn’t add up that he comes back every Saturday to part his legs and get fucked by the same man who planted horrors in him.

On a second thought, maybe Stiles is far smarter than he gave him credit for. Maybe, he is scheming to wrap his webs around Derek until he has no escape routes, and then he’ll crush him. It’s not that far-fetched. In any case, Derek will deserve it.

The only reason why he escaped the fire wasn’t because he wanted to live more. No. He wanted to live because he didn’t deserve to die easily after everything he’d done to people, to Stiles’ friends. God, he can’t even remember and it’s unfair to them. They suffered under his hands, and who knows how many Hannah had made him torture and kill.

He can tell, though, that Stiles was the only one whom he’d raped.

Now, as he eyes the sleeping man snuggling next to his chest, strange thoughts start to swarm him. This is the first time in years that he and Stiles sleep on the same bed without having sex. It is, somehow, pleasant. The only times Stiles shows up here is to fuck and, usually, Derek has to get in the mood so it wouldn’t upset Stiles. So it wouldn’t wound his pride, and if his pride is wounded, there’s no telling of what he might do.

A part of Derek would like Stiles to come here for more than just sex. He knows he has nothing to offer, besides the horrible memories and the poignant reminders, that is. However, he genuinely worries about Stiles’ condition. He isn’t taking care of himself, and obviously, he isn’t getting enough sleep. He is getting sick, and he is also avoiding food. Derek has noticed how Stiles’ weight has dropped a few kilos. He has noticed the sunken eye sockets and the hollow cheeks. If he keeps this up, he’ll fade in a matter of days.

Maybe it isn’t such a good plan for them to meet up.

Maybe, Derek should get his things and go away without leaving a trace behind.

He’d give anything to go back in time and correct everything. He’d give his life. Yet, he knows it can’t be done.

He ruined many people’s lives, and he is still ruining Stiles’ –he wraps his arm around Stiles’ middle– he brings about nothing but death and despair. If Stiles stays here, he’ll be swallowed by this suffocating darkness too. And Derek doesn’t want that to happen, not anymore. He wants Stiles, and even his friend, to have good lives. He wants them to move on, marry, and have kids.

Stiles suddenly moans softly under his chin, as though responding to his thoughts. Derek tightens his hold around him and brings him closer.

Earlier, when Stiles walked in through the door, the first thing Derek noticed beside his drenched appearance was the way his eyes gleamed like shining pearls underwater, like crystals in caves. His eyes harbored compassion and care … and things Derek has never felt from another human but him.

This guy, this Stiles, how is he still capable of caring for someone who wronged him for too long?

Derek feels the corners of his eyes burn, but no matter how much he wills himself to cry, it never happens. He knows he isn’t permitted any of it, not after the things he’d done. Such sentiments like compassion and care… they will continue to be elements of a fairy tale.

He can’t, however, swim with the tide. He won’t be pivoted the way Stiles wants him to. If he gives in now, and if he allows his feelings to come into play, he’s dead. Stiles might crush him eventually, just to get him for what he did, and maybe more. He won’t allow himself to relent to whatever these things he is feeling just holding Stiles closer to him like this. But, dear God, the touch of someone else… he’s never experienced this warmth.

 

Derek rouses from a heavy slumber, taking in the shafts of morning light and waiting for his hazy vision to focus. He becomes aware then of the fact that he dropped his guard and fell asleep. His vision finally focuses, and the feeling he gets from seeing Stiles’ peacefully sleeping face resembles the tranquility he gets from watching a meadow soaked in warm sunrays. His arm is still draped on the man’s middle securing him near so he wouldn’t be taken away, he assumes. He doesn’t know why. What he does know though is that Stiles won’t have to be taken away because once he wakes up, he’ll demand to be freed.

The most amazing thing about this, however, is the hand Stiles has draped on Derek’s.

 

Stiles’ pupils quiver under his closed lids before finally letting the light shed on them. The scent of fresh loam races to his nostrils, and he takes in a long lungful before letting it out in a small yawn. He feels the touch of familiar skin under his fingertips, and he feels its muscles twitching. His head lolls on the pillow to the side, cheek meeting the fabric. He goes wide-eyed for a beat.

Derek’s emerald eyes are on his. They aren’t cruel, and they aren’t even cold. They’re soft and a little, dare he say, smiling. Stiles’ breathing evens out bit by bit, falling into a slow rhythm. He holds eyes contact with Derek, eyes switching from beholding the change in the usually cruel eyes to the thin lips, the faint scar he himself carved, and then back to the eyes. He takes in all of Derek’s face.

Derek’s heart decides to leap beneath that bone cage of his. The way Stiles is looking at him is that of a lover… this can’t be happening. All Stiles gave him are hard and furious glares, not this. This enamored look. This is dangerous. This is very dangerous… but at the same time so fucking overwhelming. For the first time, Stiles is actually _seeing_ him, looking at _him_.

Stiles moves his hand a little, and when the action doesn’t stir any undesirable reactions from Derek, he risks more. He starts stroking the arm, slow, sensual movements. He notices how Derek’s stiff muscles soften under his ministrations, and the resultant feeling is something he’s never expected someone to rouse in him, not after thinking his heart had grown numb.

Derek reminds himself of the resolution he set for last night, and starts to harden his glare.

At the hardened glare, Stiles holds off all motions. He starts to feel Derek slowly pulling his arm away, and the way their fingers brushed before Derek removed his hand completely was so lovely, unusually so. Realizing that Derek is trying to cover up whatever this moment they’ve just had, Stiles’ hand darts to the man’s wrist.

“Wait,” he croaks out the same time Derek is sitting up, “The deal. We didn’t do it last night.”

“It’s not Saturday anymore.” Derek defends.

Stiles looks up at him, face set in a deep scowl. “The deal was once a week,” he reminds.

“Lively at ass o’clock in the morning,” he muttered to himself, now scrubbing a hand over his face. “I get it.” He licks his lips in exasperation, “Did you bring any lube?”

Stiles returns his hand to his chest and nods, “In the chest pocket of my jacket.”

Derek picks out the garment, feels about its pockets and finally fishes out the small bottle of lube and the box of condoms. He eyes the items with a pair of quizzical eyes before eying Stiles who blushes under the look and faces away, now lying on his side.

“Stomach aches,” he reasons.

Derek hums part in understanding and part in amusement. “You’re putting one on too,” he said, now dropping the jacket on the floor again, “Can’t have you staining the sheets.”

Stiles’ pupils take in the formation of the wall while Derek settles behind him. “It’s not my size though.”

Derek removes the cover, revealing Stiles’ naked body. He catches sight of the bulge growing in size but decides not to make any comments. Stiles grunts in displeasure as cold air engulfs whatever visible of his skin. Derek props on his elbow behind Stiles’ back. He flings a pack of condoms to him while telling him to put it on himself. He slides his boxers down and, again, ignores the way Stiles shivers. After making sure Stiles put on the condom, he pours a remarkable quantity of lube on his hand and brings it to Stiles’ ass. Stiles hisses loudly the moment lube is smeared over his skin, but he grits his teeth anyhow.

 

The squelch caused by the wet friction makes Stiles blush all red like a navigation light, and Derek is still using just his fingers. But it feels amazing. Derek is nudging his three fingers against Stiles’ good spot, making him arch and spasm then finally come.

Derek yanks his fingers out. He brings two other condoms, he tosses one to Stiles again and shuffles a little to get his properly around his own cock, and then he immobilizes Stiles by the hip. Stiles emerges from the haze of his afterglow and gulps. After putting the rubber on, Derek slowly pushes his cock in, groaning again because the anticipated feeling didn’t disappoint. He slides his hand to Stiles’ knee and lifts it up. His head ducks down to Stiles’ neck so that his mouth is hovering over the flushed ear.

Stiles feels hot breath fanning on the side of his neck, and so his eyes roll under his head. “Move already” he breathes out.

Derek follows the command, thrusting into those flesh walls entombing his cock and pleasing it. He watches how Stiles’ neck stretches every time his head lolls to the other side, wanting to bury his face into the pillows but failing to. He watches how one of Stiles’ hands clutches at the sheets beneath, the other chases after his hair, finally gripping a few strands and Derek allows it. He also watches how Stiles parts his lips and lets out sweet moans and then nibbles at his thumb to probably keep from moaning out loud.

Derek is slowly but surely losing his mind…

Stiles hears Derek groaning and sighing into his ear, and the resultant shudders from just that is a thing of wonder. He feels a looming climax that plans to take over awaiting a push, so Stiles grants it. “Deeper,” he moans, “I want it deeper…”

Derek hooks his arm under the nook of Stiles’ leg and tags at until he has more space. He rests his forehead on Stiles’ neck and snaps his hips, thrusting deeper.

Stiles hacks out a yelp of surprise, but the yelp soon turns into wanton moans and whimpers as if Derek’s dick was giving him a piece of heaven. It turns Derek on so fucking much that, instead of thrusting, he rams into Stiles’ ass. It’s going to stretch, he is pretty sure, it’s going take the size of his cock and isn’t that terrific.

“Oh God, yes!” Stiles keens, saliva-slicked tongue snaking out to lick along his plump upper lip. “Fuck me so hard! You’re stirring up my insides, it feels so amazing!”

Derek smirks to himself at the compliment and carries on his magic.

The hand Stiles had over Derek’s head grips tightly on the smooth strands, and he turns his face towards Derek’s. The man is looking down at him with this look of bare hunger and raw lust that makes him all dizzy and hot. Hotter, he’d fucking melt. “Amazing,” he whimpers, and tears soon spill down his cheeks. “Harder! Give it to me harder!”

Despite the almost nonexistent distance between their mouths, they don’t kiss. They can’t, and shouldn’t. This is, after all, physical. No emotions are involved, and kissing would alter that meaning.

Stiles wonders: if two people shared the same past he and Derek shares, would they still have sex so passionately like this?

Unbeknownst to him, Derek’s been thinking the same thing the moment he endeavored to do whatever Stiles pleased in bed.

When Derek ejaculated and pulled his cock out, Stiles’ ass hole was gaping like a wormhole the size of Derek’s dick. He is a little upset, though. If he didn’t wear the condom, Stiles’ ass would have been gushing jizz out by now, and it’d have been quite the sight.

Stiles, however, doesn’t stir after the climax. He doesn’t even twitch as Derek feels his gaping hole. Worry finally kicks in because, in any other day, Stiles would have elbowed him in the face for treating him like a rare specimen. Derek sits up and calls Stiles out, but the man, again, doesn’t move or give any indication that he will. Derek taps at his cheek, and then it happens, he senses the odd heat weaves Stiles is giving off.

“Shit…”

The sex and, thus, the exertion must have spiked up the fever. It isn’t just slight warmth anymore. Stiles is breathing shallowly, and perspiration is running down his face. Derek places two fingertips on Stiles’ pulse point in his neck, his eyes widening at the speeded-up heartbeats.

Stiles has, yet again, left him in another state of worry.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

It’s the same as every morning he awoke to in this cabin; he catches the dim rays of light flitting around the room, and he stares at the logs forming the ceiling. What makes this time different, though, is the ease with which he sits up in bed. He already expected to find it empty judging by the deafening silence and the absence of warmth beside him, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when he doesn’t find Derek lounging on the armchair or loitering by the kitchen.

He takes a searching look at himself, finally is able to contribute the cause of him feeling chilly all over. He isn’t wearing any clothes, again. Stiles is confused: in any other day, he’d have raised hell about it, but it just doesn’t matter. He doesn’t remember much of last night’s events, or even after he passed out this morning due to his fever which he is pretty sure Derek nursed him back to health from, but he knows something has changed.

He remembers waking up this morning and having the strangest moment with Derek.

He knows he didn’t hate it. He also knows he didn’t like it, either.

He isn’t sure of anything anymore.

Something outside the window steals his attention and he is soon pulling the throw and making his way to it. He wraps the throw around him and stands by the window. The look of lost and confusion slowly morphs into delight and glee as a flake of snow swings smoothly in the air before landing on the window sill. Stiles gazes up at the sky as it unleashes more, and he is speechless to witness how the snow coats the earth white.

 

Derek stumbles into the cabin again. The soles of his boots and the shoulders of his coat covered in snow, his hair, too. He shakes his head and ruffles his hair, and the snowy dust scatters off his smooth strands. Amidst his action, his eyes land on the bed. Finding it empty, he looks around with a small frown, but it dissipates quickly when he sees Stiles standing next to the window.

He kicks off his boots and marches in, the bags in his hands scratching. He lays them down on the counter and then, slowly, walks up to Stiles.

He finds the man beholding the snow dropping outside with a childish amusement. He sees the gleam within his eyes and the twitch in his wide, merry smile. He has never seen Stiles look this happy before. Not in his dreams and nightmares, and certainly not after they met again. It starts doing things to his body. He starts to feel a good kind of numbness slowly spreading out, starting from his toes. He slowly loses sensation of the ground beneath him, and he feels like a balloon, floating.

Stiles realizes looking away from the window is hard to do, especially with the snow falling majestically like that. But then again, from the corner of his eyes he can see Derek’s on his profile, studying him. He faces the man, but with the excitement of witnessing the snow still soaring within him, he keeps the smile plastered on.

As soon as Stiles’ gleaming eyes landed on his, Derek could feel something burst inside his chest with vigor and vivacious joy. It takes all he has in power not to place his palm on the man’s cheek and connect their lips together–

“I haven’t seen snow in years.” Stiles suddenly speaks, taking Derek out of his weird and wonderful musings. “I guess I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

Derek skids his eyes to Stiles’ long neck, scattered with moles. He remembers nibbling and blowing hot breath on it while having sex this morning. Then he aims his stare lower to Stiles’ shoulders, and he can tell the man tried to cover them with the throw but it must have kept slipping down so he eventually gave up. He follows the length of the throw to the floor, and the way it’s flung on it like a king’s cape is so funny and fitting at the same time, Derek is stumped again.

Stiles’ smile slowly wanes at the way Derek’s eyes are taking in all of him.

“It snows here every year.” Derek said, surprising even himself. He looks up again into the almond-shaped eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”

Stiles blinks, long lashes luring Derek closer. Stiles looks out the window glass again, and his features lit up. “Will it be a white Christmas this year then?”

Derek shrugs slightly, “Probably.”

Stiles looks at him again and snorts, “It’s hard to imagine you as a kid opening up presents by the Christmas tree.”

“It’s hard to imagine a grown ass man asking about Christmas, yet here you are, defying the logic.” Derek counters.

Stiles curls his lips, “Touché.”

“Come on” Derek juts his head towards the bed, “I finally managed to bring your fever down, don’t be reckless.”

“Give me two minutes.” Stiles beseeches.

Derek hardens his glare, “Back to bed.”

Stiles pouts and watches the snow with a pair of sorrowful eyes, as if he’ll be walking up to the guillotine next for his death.

“One minute.” Derek finds himself uttering, briskly.

Stiles’ lips are already parting into a wide grin. He nods to the man and scoots closer to the window, resting his palm on its glass until it condenses.

Derek lingers there watching the man who used to be his captive; face aglow and smile radiant. Derek’s lived in this cabin for a few years now, and during that time, only once did he get a chance to see something that Stiles is now reminding him of.

He’d finished a good hunt and had two wild rabbits, which he’d caught in the snares he had set up prior to that, wrapped and dangling down his shoulders. The sun changed its angle a little but it was enough to wash the landscapes with magenta hues. Derek stopped in his tracks to behold the magic weaving before him. For the first time, he felt something. He felt an inner peace he never thought he would. It wasn’t dominant. But it was there.

Looking at Stiles now, that peacefulness starts to bubble up again. And compared to this morning, it’s overflowing now. He steps closer to him; his eyes glazed with want and need. He is a few inches taller so he ducks his head to Stiles’ neck, and he feels the way Stiles freezes. He frowns but doesn’t stop. He parts his lips slightly and brings them closer to the faintly feverish skin.

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off the snow, despite how Derek is –is he kissing his neck?

Derek’s parted lips touch the skin, his wet and hot breath making it shudder. He hears Stiles’ small sigh, and he fucking loves it. He closes his lips on the skin, opens them only to close them again. The wet noises entice him to do more.

Stiles’ pupils roll under his lids and his lips part open. He slowly tilts his head to the side and lets out a contented moan.

Derek takes that as his cue and presses up closer. His tongue snakes out, licking and rejoicing at the way it makes Stiles’ tremble. One of his hands slides through the opening between each seam of the throw, and rests on Stiles’ hip. The other pulls the throw from the back, urging Stiles to let it slip down to the floor.

Stiles complies, letting go of the throw. It drops to their feet. The arm he had braced on the window gives out and he fans on the wall, breathless. The vapor outcast from his mouth fogs the glass every time he exhales.

Derek smirks to himself. Just a kiss and Stiles was already struggling to stay on his legs. He decides to go for more to test Stiles’ endurance. He stands behind him and stares at the scars and welts spoiling the beauty of his pale skin. He brings his hands to the letters engraved and ghosts his fingertips on them. His smirk deepens when Stiles hisses. He eyes the scarred back, and the perky ass and then the long legs. He salivates at the sight and finds himself gulping. He’d been fucking this man but never really stopped to admire what he was pinning down and thrusting into.  He glides his hands to Stiles’ ass, very slowly, teasing and maddening.

Stiles clasps a hand on the glass and nibbles at its back, now making more throaty noises.

Derek swivels his hands towards the groin area, just ghosting over the skin. He catches sight of Stiles’ cock, rising up to the odd attention. He returns his lips to the hollow of Stiles’ neck, preferring to keep his hands on the man’s hips. He starts tonguing the area, and at the same time, he grinds against Stiles’ ass because of course he is hard. Both of them are.

Stiles sticks his ass out a little and his neck, too. He closes his eyes and allows his moans free.

Derek suckles on the skin in earnest. He brings a hand to Stiles’ hair, clutches a fistful and then yanks, making Stiles groan hotly. He sinks his teeth into the flesh and groans.

Stiles whimpers, closes his eyes and tears soon roll down his cheeks.

Derek hears a muffled thump coming from the floor, he looks down and the glittering milky cum pooled between Stiles’ parted feet tells him that what he’d wanted to happen, happened. He feels Stiles slowly starting to slide down so he helps him up. He steps away and towards the table.

“Let’s eat.”

 

 

The holidays started on Friday the 22nd of December, and Derek disappeared on Thursday, the 21st.

 

Stiles is inside a dingy restaurant, the only place that bothered to open on Christmas . He is sitting in the booth by the window. His fingers moving in idle patterns on the table and eyes looking at the snowflakes falling down to add in inches in the white cover spread on town. There’s just him and an old man by the counter who ordered a turkey sandwich, like the one on his table and which has been left untouched.

 

_“Let’s eat.”_

_Stiles’ eyes trailed the man’s broad back. He felt worry swirl within him when Derek pulled the chair back, ready to sit._

_“I can’t.”_

_Derek held off all movements and looked up, at him. He eyed his collar in a way that suggested he wanted to bury his mouth in it again, switched to look at the bare chest, and then the withered cock nested between Stiles’ thighs. He let out a small sigh and looked away altogether._

_“There’s a kettle on the fire over there,” he said, “there’s hot water in it. Wash up.”_

_Stiles picked up the throw and left his own mess behind, and then flung the piece of covering on the bed before he headed to the fireplace where the kettle had been placed. He lifted it and felt the hot air pushing him back. He ignored it and scurried to the bathroom, locking the door behind._

_When he stepped out of the confined space with a towel wrapped around his waist, he found Derek still sitting at the table with a large bowl in front of him. He walked to the bed again, eyed the layers of neatly folded and clean clothes. He glanced over at the profile of the man as a twinge of shallow gloom engulfed him at the lonely face, and then resumed wearing the warm garments. He approached the table but Derek hooked a thump over his shoulder, ushering to the fireplace._

_“Had to reheat it,” he said, “was starting to become soggy.”_

_Stiles nodded and swiveled to take his bowl off the carroty embers. He returned to the table again and sat on the same chair from the other day, and delighted at the sight of black bean sauce noodles still popping bubbles._

_“Where did you get this?”_

_Derek paused for a beat but quickly resumed eating, “I bought it.”_

_Stiles furrowed, “how?”_

_Derek glared at him and the brown-haired immediately clamped down. Not for too long, though._

_“I brought canned fish with me, you know.”_

_Derek scoffs, looking surprisingly amused. “Why would I eat garbage food when I can catch trout in the stream?”_

_Fair enough._

_Stiles succumbed to silence after that because he thought it was wiser. He and Derek didn’t talk except for when Stiles finally decided to go back to his place. Derek stood up and offered to walk him back since the roads had been covered in snow, to which Stiles agreed with a jerky nod._

_The walk on the snow-layered road was silent, too. The only voices that interrupted that silence were the intermittent crunching of their boots on the snow. When they finally reached the tree lines that overlook the town, Derek just turned and walked back the same road without a word. Stiles’ hopeful eyes dulled and his face sagged. He’d been planning to ask Derek to come over to spend the Christmas with him but it became obvious the man had plans of his own._

 

The waiter nears his table and says something about closing time, and Stiles wakes up from his flashbacks. He pays the bill and vacates the restaurant. He stands at the curb outside and scans the street transformed by glowing festive lights. He thrusts his hands into his pockets and marches forward, snowflakes still falling and landing on the top of his head and shoulders.

 

_On Thursday, Stiles decided to muster his courage and go see Derek, maybe even convince him into spending Christmas together. He drove his Jeep on the road that was still covered in snow and finally reached Derek’s cabin. He’d been losing sleep over this, thinking and trying to craft up ideas on how to brush the topic because Derek and Stiles weren’t friends, there were benefits but they weren’t friends. It became a whole different thing when he found a dozen of strange men inside the cabin, but no Derek._

_The boisterous men had been laughing when Stiles strolled in, bare confusion on his face._

_“Who’re you?” one of them asked, in his hand was a can of fish Stiles had brought the previous week._

_“I should be asking you that,” he countered, slowly taking his gloves off. “This isn’t your place.”_

_“It’s yours?” Another one asked, he looked so Alpha and was most likely the leader or whatever of them._

_Stiles gulped and shook his head, “it’s my friend’s.” He winced at his own wording._

_“Oh, I apologize.” The middle-aged man said on a smile. “We, my friends here and I, are hunters.”_

_Stiles eyed the said men who jutted and nodded their chins at him. He nodded back and faced the leader again, “you hunt what, exactly, Wendigos?”_

_“Not that kind of hunters, " he said on a chuckle, "Anything legal, but mostly boars.”_

_“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”_

_The man scratched his temple with a calloused hand, “received news that a blizzard is gonna hit tonight,” he said, “we didn’t have time to go back and return since we’re waking up at dawn anyway, soon as we found the cabin we settled in.”_

_“You can’t just barge in into people’s places.”_

_“I know, we’re sorry.” He said, face falling. “We’re going to bail at first sun ray.”_

_Stiles allowed the info to sink home and slowly nodded, now he chewed his bottom lip and looked around, “where’s Der –” he cut himself off and glared at the man, “where’s my friend, anyway?”_

_“Dunno,” he said, “place was empty when we arrived.”_

 

Now that Stiles thinks of it, he’d have realized what was going on after he spent the entire night there and Derek still didn’t show up.

 

_By the first ray, the hunters upped and left with their firearms tucked under their armpits. Stiles waited again until seven thirty and went back to the school. He returned around six in the evening again, to see if Derek was back. He wasn’t._

_On Friday, Stiles took the bike of his neighbor's who'd permitted it and rode to the cabin. He’d been so sure Derek would be there but had the biggest surprise when he found the place empty. The fireplace was cold, so was the bed. The things Stiles had brought before were still in their bags, except for the things the hunters used and ate. He strode out, feet trudging. He surveyed the mountains and trees surrounding the cabin, the angry clouds and the hiding half moon._

_He decided to spend the night and hoped Derek would be home already when he woke up._

_He wasn’t._

_Stiles put on his jacket and dashed outside, jaw slack and eyes wide. He searched the woods, places that took him back to the time Derek had chased him and he had run for his life. Despite that, he lingered there with this flaming hope to find Derek because there was nothing in the cabin that suggested he really left. But the man himself wasn’t there, hadn’t been in days._

_In a moment of frenzy, Stiles parted his lips and screamed himself hoarse._

_He was becoming someone that he’s not. He was afraid he was losing himself but all that mattered was Derek. He screamed because, more than the thought of his sanity finally buying the farm, he was scared Derek was really and seriously gone._

 

He adjusts his woolen scarf over his nose and returns his hand into his pocket.

Just ahead in the almost vacant alley, Stiles sees a box from which he hears noises coming. He approaches it very carefully, and his gloomy face lightens up at the sight of the golden retriever puppy with no name tag. People still do stuff like this, seriously, and in a day like this? He crouches by it and picks the whimpering puppy up to his chest. He pets the back of its ears and it purrs in response.

He can take it home but what about after the holidays, who would take care of it when Stiles is at work?

His logical side finally wins over and his face falls again. He does want to pick up the puppy, but he doesn’t want to do a half-assed job of looking after it. He’s pretty sure that, since he stopped to check the puppy, others will and someone will eventually take it home.

With that in mind, Stiles places the puppy back in the cartoon box and walks ahead.

 

He’d ignored his father’s as well as Scott’s calls when they started calling soon after Derek disappeared, what with him pondering the possibility of the man never coming back, and eventually had turned their invitation down.

He should be home, with his family, celebrating this special eve together.

He sighs and pauses in his track, shoulders slumping. He isn’t a good son, is he? Favoring the fantasy or whatever the fuck Derek gives him over the tender smiles and joyful atmosphere of the people who love him most. He guesses with his current mindset, there’s no way he can face his family.

He can’t do one thing right.

He turns and faces the way he came from, his footprints slowly getting covered again by the falling snow. He lets out another sigh and walks the road back to where he saw the box. If he can’t make himself or his family happy, he can at least try and do one good in this world. Derek was gone, probably to never come back. But life doesn’t stop at that, and Stiles, deep down, he knows it. He just doesn’t know how it’s going to be for him from now on, coming to the realization that Derek is gone.

Just beyond the haze, near the light pole where he’d left the puppy in the box, he sees a man dressed in black crouching by it. Stiles scowls and approaches the man, who suddenly lifts the puppy and starts to walk ahead, and then scurries after him.

“Hey, you!” he calls out, “stop! That puppy isn’t yours.”

The man grinds to a sudden halt, but doesn’t turn around.

Stiles also comes to an abrupt stop, face still scowling. As the haze of snow and wind ebbs, the broad back of the strange man starts to seem very familiar. Stiles’ lips part and the scowl soon morphs into something else, something that prompts tears in his eyes.

“Derek?” He calls, incredulously.

The man reels around very slowly, the puppy tucked under his black coat with just its head popping out, whole brown eyes sparkling up at him.

“You ignored him.”

Stiles cups his mouth and his tears break free, streaming down his blushing cheeks. “What the hell” he hiccups, “what’ you doing here, Derek?”

Said man shrugs, “was running a few errands.”

Stiles’ crying face hardens, “for four freaking days?”

Derek pets the puppy’s head and remains silent.

Stiles regains his composure and exhales, a long breath of relief. “I thought you were gone.”

“Obviously, I’m not.” Derek states.

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair and flakes of snow slide down. He takes a step forward, and another and another until he’s standing a stride length away from Derek. He looks up into his eyes and then at the puppy, “I came back with the intention to take him with me.”

Derek only continues to pet the puppy.

Up close, Derek looks like he’s gained a little weight. His complexion looks better and the one-week old stubble suits him quite a lot. He also sounds… cheerful? Stiles berates himself inwardly for even thinking that, especially when he doesn’t know where the man has been if not in the cabin. He watches how Derek’s long fingers brush the puppy’s fur with the care of a mother. He imagines that tender touch on his hair, on his body… fuck; he’s going to become hard just thinking about it.

“Derek,” he speaks, garnering said man's attention. “They say the storm is not gonna lit up soon, why don’t you come over to my place?”

 

The front door opens with a rattle, and Stiles’ hand slides in first groping the wall for the switch. He clicks it and steps in, followed by Derek who is still hugging the puppy to his chest. He kicks his shoes off and saunters in, now working his jacket open.

“I have a chair pad somewhere,” he starts, finally managing to remove his jacket and hang it on the wall rack. “Let me see if I can find it.”

Derek remains by the door, eyes searching the apartment.

“You can come in, you know.” Stiles scoffs. He shakes his head a little and disappears into the inside.

Derek takes off his boots and coat, and places the puppy on the floor. He watches it teeter and totter before finally regaining its balance, and then he steps in to further inspect the small place. Stiles then appears before him with a gleeful face as he shows him the marine blue chair pad in his hands.

“Found it in the linen closet.” He reports, now going down to his knees to lift the puppy. He cradles it and smiles. “It’s a guy, right?”

Derek says nothing which makes Stiles look up.

“It’s a he, right?”

Derek nods.

“What do we call you, huh?” He asks the puppy, and then looks up again at Derek. “I’ve prepared the bathroom for you, I mean if you want to take a shower.” He trails off, “I’m about to start dinner preparations, so take your time.”

Derek’s heavy-lidded eyes remain on Stiles’, almost unnerving. He studies the way Stiles’ cheerful face falls and how he slowly hugs the puppy to him, tighter. He ruffles his hair and brushes past them.

Realizing the man was taking his advice on taking that shower, Stiles quickly stands erect. “It’s the second door on your left.”

 

He sprinkles some garlic powder on the two chicken breasts he had placed on the counter, and the sound of water gushing from the shower head confirms the wonderful fact that Derek wasn’t gone anymore. It’s almost unbelievable when he thinks about it; just a few days ago he was looking everywhere but couldn’t find the man, now he’s inside his bathroom. Stiles already left his shaving kit and his clothes in there, praying they’d fit. He did pick the over-sized clothing so Derek wouldn’t have trouble getting the dark purple sweatshirt past his head.

It’s wonderful.

Not long ago, he was struggling to find a way to convince Derek into spending Christmas Eve with him. He didn’t have to anymore. Derek is here, in his bathroom.

 

Derek steps out of the bathroom, clean-shaven and dressed properly in Stiles’ clothes that fitted him almost too perfectly. The scent of food lures him and he saunters back to the living room, finding Stiles and the puppy on the former’s sofa, playing. He smiles to himself at the sight but quickly drops the smile when Stiles props up.

“You done?”

Derek nods and nudges his hands into the side pockets of his sweatpants. “Thanks for letting me use your shower.”

Stiles shows this strange grin which Derek doesn’t know what to make of, and shakes his head, “I fixed us some grub,” he notifies, “you hungry?”

Derek presses his lips together and nods, “I could eat.”

“Great,” Stiles picks the puppy again and heads towards the kitchen assured the man isfollowing closely by.

 

At dinner table, Stiles doesn’t bring up the bit about the hunters or how he spent the past three or four days searching for Derek, but he does initiate the talk with an inquiry.

“So where have you been, if not in the cabin.”

Derek slurps his soup and shrugs a shoulder slightly, “told you.”

“Running errands,” Stiles echoes, “yea, I heard you the first time.”

Derek picks a portion of the chopped chicken breasts and dumps it into his mouth. He nods at the puppy suddenly, “you gonna keep him?”

Stiles’ eyes skid towards the puppy munching away meat, and he plasters on another vague grin. “I’d love to.”

“What’ you gonna name him, then?”

Stiles clears his throat, “dunno,” he said, “was thinking to leave that up to you, I mean I’m keeping him anyway.”

Derek’s eyes and Stiles’ meet and they hold the contact for a beat.

“Alright,” Derek agrees, but then fell silent as the cogs of his brains begin a ride to find a moniker.

“I remember Peter,” Stiles starts and the way Derek flinches makes him go pale. “He died for you, you know.”

“I know.” Derek replies, crossly. He leans back on the chair and wipes his mouth with the napkin. “Thanks for the food.”

Stiles nods jerkily, bottom lip caught between two sets of teeth. He needs to learn when to speak and when to keep fucking quiet. Derek was back to scowling again and Stiles is reeling because the man might decide to leave, again. He quickly changes the subject so Derek won’t get even the chance to decide anything.

“How was it?”

Derek folds the napkin and places it near his half empty plate, “surprisingly good.”

A broad smile takes over Stiles’ lips, “I know right,” he said, “better than your grilled fish.”

Something like a fond smile tugs at Derek’s lip, but he doesn’t let it. “Maybe”

Stiles looks away and pushes his chair backward, “I’m going to take a shower now,” he said, “No Name here is coming with.”

Derek also pushes his chair rearward and lifts up, “I’ll clean the table.”

“Put everything in the dishwasher.” He told him, now laying the golden retriever on his shoulder.

 

Derek didn’t seem willing to share his whereabouts for the past few days, and it’s a good thing Stiles didn’t try to pry it out of him. Although he asked a couple of times, he assumes that isn’t enough to drive Derek away.

He peels his shirt off, and then moves on to the buckle of his belt.

To be honest, there’s no guarantee that Derek is going to spend the night over. He looked like with one poke and he’d bolt out as if Hell hounds were chasing him. He didn’t look comfortable talking to Stiles about anything, except for when they talked about the food and Stiles hardly calls that an achievement. In fact, Derek might be getting his things to leave right fucking now. He can’t figure him out, and he can’t bet on chances.

He picks the dog and gets into the tub, sitting inside it and ignoring the way the water overflows to the floor.

The mere mention of Peter chased the color from Derek’s face, thus his as well. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Peter died an honorable death, more or less, and Derek shouldn’t feel any dole about that particular side of his past. Although Peter made mistakes, he tried to wipe the slate clean by sacrificing himself. Maybe those weren’t mistakes; cleaning after psychopathic Derek wasn’t a mistake, it was a choice. The man did something good in the end.

Stiles splashes some water on his face.

It was stupid to bring up Peter. Hey, I have an idea, why don’t you name the dog after the person who used to clean after your bloody messes so it’d always keep the reminder alive. How fucking brilliant.

“Agh”

Brilliant, just brilliant…

 

He walks out and the steam stalks after him, along with the scent of mint and fresh sea minerals. He already bid on finding the apartment empty, so when he goes into the living room and finds it empty, he chuckles. Now, that’s what you call a brilliant deduction. He puts the dog on the chair pad, turns the lights off and heads to his bedroom.

Upon entering the small room, he finds Derek by the nightstand with a photo frame in his hand. He pauses but eventually rejoices at the fact that he was wrong about Derek. Man wasn’t so frail, thank God. He closes the door and steps towards his bed.

“This is your father?”

Stiles rounds the bed to stand beside him. He takes the photo frame from him and eyes it. It’s a photo of himself, his father, his step-mother and Scott (because Scott was family). “After my return, my mom decided that we didn’t have enough family photos and forced all of us into it.”

Derek frowns, “your return?”

Stiles’ heart slams against his chest vigorously. He opens the first drawer of the nightstand and hides the picture inside to probably hide the memories as well. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “it’s all in the past.” He switches the light of the lamp on and faces the man again, and speaks after a long pause “thought you left.”

Derek’s dark, mesmerizing pupils start casting their spell, charming Stiles the second their eyes met. “I decided to stay.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, almost in a moan. “What changed your mind?”

Derek snakes his tongue out, licking his lips. He shrugs lazily and steps closer to the man, removing the space between them.

Stiles gets all dizzy. He rests his hands on Derek’s arms, and starts sliding them up very slowly. “I’m glad then,” he whispers, his hands finally reaching Derek’s hair. By this point, he is panting hotly, “So fucking glad.”

Derek ducks and buries his face in Stiles’ neck, and the man throws his head to the back, moaning in pleasure. They fan on the bed, and for the first time, Derek places himself between Stiles’ legs without ordering him to turn over.

 

“Oh, fuck!” Stiles grunts into Derek’s ear, cutting the continuous cries and moans. “It’s slamming so deep.”

Derek thrusts into the man beneath at his heart’s content, he already had his legs spread and folded to his chest. This is different from their other times, and he can see Stiles’ expression and even allowed it when the man hugged him.

Stiles feels Derek’s dick shoving and drilling deeper with each thrust and he is about to lose his mind. This is so hot and somewhat passionate, even the fact that they’re doing it missionary style is making him all woozy in the head. He moans like a whore fucked by three.

“More, Der” he begs, “I want more.”

Derek’s heart flutters because this is also the first time Stiles calls his name during sex. He frames the crown of Stiles’ head with a hand and the other glides under the man, bringing him even closer as he snaps his hips. He thrusts into him like he’s using an Onahole. Stiles yelps, moans and whimpers. Derek bucks up just a little to watch as Stiles’ eyes narrow and his mouth parts open, a whimper tearing from his lungs as he spurts his cum over his chest.

Holy fuck! It’s the best thing Derek’s seen in his life. He darts his hand to the throbbing but nonetheless relieved cock to milk out cum but Stiles rests his hand on his, and he fucking mewls as he stops him.

“You know it becomes sensitive after I cum.” He reminds.

Derek licks his upper lip and realizes the way with which he’s beholding Stiles’ sexed-out expression is like a damn hungry wolf salivating over its prey, its sexy, sweat-soaked, panting and blushing prey. He wants to mess him up, squeeze his dick and see how beautifully he’ll cry.  He blows out a ragged breath and spins his hip to rub the inside of Stiles’ ass.

Stiles pouts up at him. He wordlessly returns his hands around Derek’s neck and locks his ankles behind the man’s back. “It’s okay, Derek.” He says out of no freaking where that it takes Derek a moment to decipher the meaning, but still fails. “Move already.”

Derek tightens his hold around Stiles again and knocks their foreheads together.

However, they don’t kiss…

 

Derek, naked and sweaty, sits on the bed in complete darkness. He glances over at the man sleeping away and frowns. They had hot passionate sex. He and Stiles, his former captive, the man he used to torture and rape. He braces his elbows on his knees and drops his head in his hands, just what in the world is he doing? He so readily accepted Stiles’ invitation, and even crawled into his bed. Just how messed up is he going to be and how low is he going to bring Stiles until he’s satisfied. He’s a selfish prick and Stiles deserves better, the way he fucking smiles… This is not fair to the man.

“Der?”

The man snaps out of his reverie and looks over at Stiles, finding him propped up on his elbow, hair standing out in every direction and bare skin looking so porcelain.

“Did I wake you?” His velvety voice cuts the silence.

“Mm” Stiles shakes his head sluggishly, “is it still snowing?”

Derek faces the window, the only source of light, and nods.

“Merry Christmas, Hale.” Stiles’ sleepy voice drones through a smile.

Derek twists around to face Stiles, “Merry Christmas.”

 

This needs to stop.

 


	14. Chapter 14

When he woke up, the side of the bed next to his was empty.

 

Today isn’t Saturday, it’s Wednesday. Stiles couldn’t wait a whole freaking week, especially after the hot night he and Derek shared on his bed inside his apartment.

He enters the empty cabin and kicks off the boots smeared in snow, and then he puts the shopping bags on the table.

He doesn’t know Derek’s thoughts on the passionate night they spent together, or how he feels about it. He isn’t here to find out, either. He’s here today to… just because, really. He isn’t sure. A part of him just couldn’t stop the excitement from oozing out every time he remembered Saturday.

He finds the kettle inside the fireplace nested on burning embers, suggesting that Derek was planning to come back. He sits on the bed and listens to the silence. Distant chirping and squeaks interrupt this silence from time to time, but he slowly starts to realize that this cabin and this silence is a lot like Derek; lonely, cold and misunderstood. It’s funny how the temperature drop embodies Derek’s icy cold attitude, and how the burning embers in the fireplace symbolize the hungry lust he saw in the man’s eyes when he was fucking him. It’s also funny how the cabin in the woods is eerie at first glance –something that takes him back to Derek’s first appearance.

He leans back on the bed sheets and the specks of dust fly off like a swarm of butterflies disturbed by a breeze. The scent of wood and soil races to his nostrils and the touch of sheets fondle his back. He snuggles on the bed, making soft noises at the scent that fills up his head with images of Derek’s face inches from his. Deep set eyes that look into his with kindness and lust.

One of his hands slides under his belt, cupping the tent beneath the fabric. The other goes to his mouth and he suckles on its back.

 

Derek’s been living a roller-coaster of emotions. He tried going hunting so it’d take his mind off things, off the way Stiles chewed on his quivering lip desperate and lonely for a touch, the way he whimpered and sobbed as if Derek was a sex God giving him intermittent orgasms. The way his eyes glinted whenever their eyes met and the way he wrapped his limbs around Derek as though holding on so he wouldn’t drown in pleasure. It became too much at one point and he couldn’t just sit there and finish _To Build a Fire_ , so he picked his hunting gear and sauntered out.

He knows Stiles kept that habit of coming every Saturday, but he didn’t count on their last encounter causing a change in agenda. As he stands there by the cabin’s front door, he hears moans echoing off from the inside; Stiles’ moans, his hot, sexy moans.

Derek freezes by the doorstep with a hand on the handle.

He listens in, although he knows it’s wrong, he listens in. He hears his name being called out on a prolonged moan, and no other words can describe the way with which his stomach vibrates. He’s never even dreamed of this day where Stiles will finally jerk off to him. Derek frowns. He already decided to stop this but now he is getting second thoughts, so maybe Stiles doesn’t plan on snatching this away from him after he’s played him well. Maybe Stiles really…loves him? Derek wants to laugh. Stiles doesn’t love him, he can’t. Derek tortured and assaulted him, he gave him nothing but broken bones and burnt skin and raped ass. These sins, they can’t be forgotten or forgiven, not by Stiles, and not by the history that Derek is pretty sure will repeat itself if Stiles hangs at the cabin more often.

He reels around and leaves with the spoil of the hunt dangling down one of his shoulders.

 

Stiles’ irregular panting is the only sound beating the silence as he lies there sprawled like a sardine. He sits up with a small groan and eyes the mess on his hand and his cock, and sighs. It’s a good thing Derek isn’t here to see the state he’s in. He probably should clean up quick and leave and make good of the fact that Derek has no idea he’s here on a freaking Wednesday. Besides, the puppy must be going crazy at the neighbor’s; poor thing never liked the old scary lady.

He goes back home and prays Derek doesn’t pinpoint the evidence of him barging into the place when its owner was outside.

 

On Saturday, just a day away from the New Year eve, Stiles buys presents and a cake which he got a discount for at the bakery down town and heads to the woods. He already left the 3 week old puppy at his coworker’s, same music teacher who blushes at his sight.

 

There’s nothing more beautiful than light snowfall sprinkling on lofty-armed trees like magic dust. He feels wafts of wind sweeping through the empty tree lines like a companion in his trek. The path glitters and crunches beneath his boots. He looks up with twinkling eyes and finds the cabin slowly coming into view, so he beams and quickens his pace.

Finally, he’s going to see Derek.

 

“Hey” he gushed after entering and finding Derek standing by the window. He places the bags at the foot of the table and the cake on its top. “I know it’s a day away, but I couldn’t hold myself when I found about the discounts.”

Derek unfolds his arms and thrusts his hands into his pockets, and then, very slowly, turns around.

Stiles smiles widely upon seeing the man’s face, his evidently cross face. “I hope you like vanilla cream.”

“Stiles,” just as the words were voiced, said man stilled and his beam dissipated. “I admit I never expected to meet you again, not after what I’d done to you. But I’ve been telling you over and over, I do not desire you the way you want me to. The fact that you come here into a place I’d always considered a sanctuary is really upsetting me. You’re threatening my inner peace.” He said, coolly, “There can never be a thing between you and me. So I’d like you to take your stuff and leave, and I don’t want you to come back.”

“Okay, random.” Stiles scoffed, humorlessly. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“From weeks of gritting my teeth and praying you’d someday just stop showing up.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” Stiles shrugged.

“It will.” Derek says on a shrug of his own, “I’ve already paid my debts to you, so now I want you to leave.”

“Debts?” Stiles cocked his head and furrowed, “you think you can make up for the things you made me go through?”

“Then I guess there’s no reason for you to come back here.”

“I told you –”

“You want to make me relive the hell I made you go through, yea, I heard you the first time.” Derek sighs wearily, “I don’t care about that, or about you.”

Stiles’ throat constricts. His arms sag beside his sides, “but… you’re starting to feel something.”

Derek smirked coldly, “towards you? Yea, that’s called sorry.”

Stiles’ lips part and he makes a face.

“The only reason why I agreed to your nonsense was because I felt sorry for you.” He said, “Nothing more.”

“But last time,” Stiles gulps, in an attempt to hold off his tears “we connected…”

Derek barked a laugh, “are you even listening to yourself?” he said, “You gave me a hole to fuck and I did. Don’t come crying to me if you were easily swayed.” He picks the cake and throws it to the door, and then the bags, making Stiles flinch. “But now I’ve grown tired of you, so why don’t you do us both a favor and get the fuck out.”

Stiles slowly lowers his head which is now drained of any thoughts; he can’t even feel his legs. He moves them eventually and swivels around, vacating the cabin. He feels his chest tight and his eyelids heavy with unshed tears, mourning in consolation. He snorts. It’s funny because he’s inconsolable.

He trudges on the snow, heavy steps taking him somewhere.

So last time was just Derek fucking a hole? Is that it? Then what was that glint in his eyes? And why were his arms so gentle? And why the hell did he hug him back!

His foot hits something and he stumbles down, gazing dazedly at the lifted root that he tripped over. He’s too worn-out to curse or kick snow to blow off steam. He’s too tired to get back up on his feet. He frames his face and cries into his hands, hot tears slithering between his palm lines.

Derek wasn’t wrong. Stiles should have been stronger than that, shouldn’t have let himself get easily swayed, after all, the only thing that can be between them is the reminder of a past so ugly. He doesn’t know why he expected more, and he doesn’t know why it hurts to be chased off despite the fact that he was brought here by sheer happiness and excitement. Derek was right. Stiles gave him a hole, and the man used it. He was used yet again, and he was the one to initiate it so which means Derek will most likely not feel remorse.

He hears the bushes at a side rustling, and it delays his feel-sorry-for-my-self weeping play. He sits upright and he feels the way the cold wind dries his tears.

“Who’s there?”

A long blood-smeared snout edged by two long and sharp fangs comes out of the bushes, and Stiles’ sadness gets momentarily replaced by fear because that’s got to be one of the wild boars those hunter from the other time were hunting. Obviously, they missed. In a moment so unpredictable, the boar sprints towards him with his mouth open, revealing the set of fangs.

Stiles regains sensation in his legs and levers up, ready to run. He finds another angry-looking boar in his path that, also, doesn’t wait for the startup cue and launches at him. Stiles topples to the back and brings his arms up in front of him, and all his sees through the chaos consisting of fangs and snow dust and fur is a pairs of unforgiving eyes, and all he hears is the squeal of the boars. He flails his legs and elbows one of them, but its fang manages to seal on his arm and he whimpers. He tries to lift up and the momentum gives the other boar a chance to pierce his fang in Stiles’ collar until blood spurts on the white snow, tainting it.

He almost lets them eat him.

However, thinking back on the days of hell he survived and of his family believing in him enough to let him come here unescorted gifts him with more strength and, in a wonderful moment, he manages to push the boars off him and dart forward. He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the woods and facing the main road. He wobbled to his knees when the blood loss finally caught up to him. Then radiant headlights speed towards him and that’s the last thing he sees before fainting to the tarred ground.

 

********

 

Stiles rises to consciousness with a soft groan, and aside from the intermittent beeps and the muffled voices, he feels a dull and piercing pain in his neck and upper arm, preventing any deep thoughts. He slowly opens his eyes and grunts at the assaulting beams overhead. He feels a faint weight on his left arm and the side of his neck from where the pain is radiating. The beeping returns and he looks away from the ceiling, letting his head loll to the side. He opens his bleary eyes properly and sees a metal pole hooked horizontally on his bed. He hears another muffled voice as if coming from underwater and turns to it, finding his father hovering atop him with worry marring his face.

He furrows up at his father who is mouthing something which he can’t hear. He groans in protest and forces his eyes close.

“Hurts…” the voice said, “Call the nurse…”

“Wha…?” Stiles breathes out lazily, he faces away and tries to sit up, but agonizing pain flares up in his left side and he cries out. His bearings come intact and he draws his legs to his chest and curls up on his side, nursing his injured arm.

“Son,” his father’s voice returns, cool and confident. “Try not to move too much. I already called the nurses.”

Stiles gasps because his brief moment of semi-lucidity is now being overtaken by tremors of pain. He shuts his eyes again, tears roll down as though aiming to win a race. “Hurts…”

The beeping grows and the world of beaming fluorescent lights swirls and darkens at the edges.

“I know” his father said, now combing his greasy, sweat-filled hair with his callous fingers. “They’re gonna be here soon.” He soothes and, miserly, watches how his son caves to oblivion.

 

He was in his office singing papers and hoping the rest of the day would stay the same, no urgent calls of duty, but alas, he was wrong. His personal phone started ringing and he frowned at the 3-digit number because that’s usually a sign of something bad. He connected the call and didn’t need to hear the rest when the woman on the other end of the line had brought up hospital, your son and immediately.

He took sick leave and rushed out, to Oroville, and was there in less than an hour which is, according to him, record time. Now that he thinks of it, he must have broken too many traffic laws that the BPA would bury itself underground if this ever gets out. But the moment that nurse lady blurted out his son’s name and that he was hurt, logic became a thing of debate. He was then taken into a room soon after they had his son out of the ICU and settled in room 34. He can’t deny the good mannerism with which he was treated, but he guesses his uniform is to thank for that.

He had been sitting on a chair by Stiles’ bedside, and noticed how his son started to stir and groan. He knows his son and he knew he was going to start moving a lot soon. Indeed, moments and the nurses had to be called in. They came in and gave his son a sedative and some morphine to help him rest, and the doctor went on about the surgery again and its effects and possible rehabilitation, which, really? He didn’t have the spirit to hear out so he dismissed the doctor until his son was awake. The doctor, thankfully, was very understanding and left after tapping his shoulder in consolation.

Now, as he sits there eying his son’s battered body, he starts to ponder the story he was told: It seems that Stiles got attacked inside the woods by a couple of boars, and then almost hit by a car on the edge road separating the woods and the town, which leaves him with a plethora of questions. Why was his son inside the woods? What was he doing outside school, considering the fact that the attack happened between six and seven, and working hours end at ten?

He sighs and scrubs his face. It seems that he’s grown out a few gray hairs over this. The only way he can get answers is for Stiles to wake up and start talking again.

 

********

 

The morning is always cold these days, sometimes even chilly that it becomes unbearable. Derek has become used to it, though, and he doesn’t find it as irritating as he used to when he first occupied the cabin.

He washes his face with the water he left boiling inside the fireplace, and finally faces the broken mirror. The endless eyes looking back at him make him nauseous and he looks away, and finally vacates the confined space. Outside, he observes the mess he made and he knows he was out of line with that, but Stiles wouldn’t have believed his act otherwise. He goes to clean off the cream so it wouldn’t attract ants, and accidentally finds a folded paper that must have fallen from one of the bags Stiles brought with him. He is crouches, opens the piece of paper and reads it silently.

[I want to overcome our past together, and I believe that what we’re starting to have is capable of making the impossible possible. Happy New Year, Derek Hale.]

He rakes his fingers through his hair and breathes out a heavy sigh. Thinking back on how dejected and broken Stiles looked, saying those things might have not been the best thing to say. He went through so much trouble and the genuine look of sorrow on Stiles makes him regret the whole thing all the way to his bones. He crunches the paper and hugs it to his face. Gosh, what has he done? Stiles didn’t deserve that, and he didn’t deserve to be chased out like some fucking beggar.

On the other hand, this is for the best.

 

He finished repairing a couple of antique chairs yesterday and he needs to take them out of the rented garage and return them today so he can get his wage. He has things he needs to buy: the jaws of his bear trap have started to dull, so he needs a new one. The hook keeper of his finishing rod broke a couple of days ago. He needs new socks as well.

He wears his coat and treks the direction he lead Stiles through the other time. With his hands in his side pockets, Derek finds it easy to dawdle and just behold the white coat covering the trees and the road. And as he ventures further into the woods, this nagging buzzing prompts him. He knows wild boars tend to become territorial during mating season, so the idea of some poor animal disemboweled by a raging sounder of hogs preparing to complete for breeding rights is not that far-fetched.  Indeed, just a few feet away, he finds puddles of blood huddled in one area: there obviously has been some sort of a struggle. He waves before his face to fend off the flies and hurriedly scurries away.

 

He sells the first chair and receives money for it without a word exchanged, other than the gushing compliments the old man makes about the beautiful carvings. Then he goes to sell the second and this old lady is quite chatty in her dealings, and he bears with it for the money.

“I’d have waited more, sweetheart.” She started, “it’s dangerous now in those woods, a guy got mauled last night by a few hogs.”

That piqued his curiosity and he found himself glaring details from her.

“Like I said,” she said on a hum as she examined the repaired chair, “He was whisked to hospital last night. Rumors have it that the young man was being chased, and I also heard he got mauled pretty badly by wild pigs. I keep telling them those boars will eventually kill someone, they’re becoming a damn epidemic.”

Derek doesn’t know any men who are crazy enough to be in those woods, especially with the threat of rampaging hogs still fresh, but he does know Stiles. He also knows that he chased the man outside around six or seven… The pieces fall together and Derek pales. The nausea hits him again and he doubles over, expelling the contents of his stomach. He ignores the way the old lady coos over him, he doesn’t trust people’s worry anymore, and he waves it off as bad ingestion. He eventually takes his money and clear her way.

 

So Stiles was rushed to the hospital last night?

He stops in his tracks and glowers at the dirty road.

Does this mean the blood he saw earlier in the road was Stiles’? Was he really attacked by boars? When he was warm inside the cabin, reading a fucking book, Stiles was being mauled to death?

His legs commence moving again, leading him to the only ER in town. He manages to charm info out of a petite nurse who guides him to room 34 in a different ward in which the only patient named Stiles is. He nods to her when she tells him to take his time since visiting hours weren’t over until late in the afternoon. He walks in after peering inside and finding it clear of anyone other than the man sleeping on the bed.

Stiles’ head is tilted towards the other side, and there are a few scratches and cut on his hands and face. His left arm is in a black sling and the entire left side of his collar is swathed in gauze. He looks pale that Derek can actually see the blue veins underneath his skin. Dark circles surround his eyes that it literally looks like bruising.

So it was really Stiles the victim of the animal attack.


	15. Chapter 15

 

“Happy new year, buddy!” Scott’s voice blares off the laptop Stiles’ father placed on the over-bed table, “wish you a quick recovery first” –Stiles smiles fondly at that– “and to be happy and successful in all phases of life.”

“Thanks, bro.” He tells him in his moderate voice, “I wish you the same, and even more.”

“They’re letting me stay this late because it’s a special night but same rules still apply to everyone,” the father tells his son’s best friend, “so I’m gonna go offline, we’ll talk more when I get there.”

“Okay,” Scott mumbles, “sorry that I can’t be there, my boss is a bit bloody-headed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles again despite the bruises and cuts scattered on his face. “We’ll talk again later on phone.”

He watches how his father closes the laptop and lifts his coat off the backrest of his chair.

“I should go now.” He opines to his son, “I’ll see if they can discharge you soon.”

Stiles nods.

His father’s eyes linger on his before they narrow, “you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Stiles deciphers the hint and rolls his eyes, “dad, I told you,” he whines, “I was jogging, and I lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”

His father presses his lips together; that sounded a lot like a smarmy, unctuous reply, but he goes along with it and nods. He pecks on his son’s forehead and finally leaves after turning the light off.

With his father finally gone from the room, Stiles’ head falls back on the pillow and he lets out a somnolent sigh. It’s exhausting when you have to tell a lie after a lie while trying to keep a straight face. He knows he shouldn’t have, especially not to his father, but it’s not like he can open with a ‘hey, you can’t guess who I met in the woods after four years; it’s the same guy who tortured and raped me for months’, who, also, kicked him out of the cabin on the premise to never show his mug again.

Stiles falls silent and still. The lines on his face quirk and soon he’s scowling into the darkened room. He can sit up now without feeling the need to hurl his lungs out, so with his healthy hand, he peels off the quilt. He swings his legs outside the bed and gives himself a moment as the room started swirling in his vision, and then he shambles to the bathroom, wincing every time he moved wrong and agitated his wounds.

It seems that the boars’ tusks left him with quite the damage, almost popped open his jugular but he was lucky they missed. It left his skin open though across his collar and neck, and the area around his elbow was crazed open as well. It looked ugly. He was told that the doctor managed to sew him up and that the surgery was a success.

He checks himself in the mirror and scowls again: there are raw bruises under his eyes, cuts and scratches over his face and his knuckles. His left arm is in a sling, dangling down his chest. There’s gauze wrapped around his chest and the side of his neck. He is, all in all, a huge fucking mess. He is glad, though, because besides the gashes on his arm and neck, he seems to have escaped fairly lightly. It’d have been worse, way worse.

He returns to his bed after he’s relieved himself, and unwanted thoughts start to swarm up in his head, reminding him of what had gone down a couple of nights ago before he was rushed to here.

He is going to think hard about this, and then he’ll decide what the best course of action should be.

 

********

 

“You sure you don’t want me to call someone?”

Stiles shakes his head for the second time today as his father kept propositioning he calls a caretaker or a nurse come and help out since his arm is, well, out of commission, but Stiles keeps declining. He jerks his hand from his grey jacket and nears the car his father is now stepping away from to hug his son.

“I’ll be fine, dad.” He assures the man.

“What about that music teacher who came to see ya a couple ‘times?” There’s a playful smile on his lips which Stiles finds utterly outraging.

He rolls his eyes and can’t help but chuckle, “for the second time, dad, she’s just a coworker.” He grumbles “And she’s already keeping my dog with her, that’s plenty of help.”

“Alright, son.” he acquiesces on an assigned and tired nod.

“Tell Scott not to worry too much.”

His father wants nothing but to curl his face into an accusatory frown and force his say, but he knows Stiles hasn’t been having any of his own in what happened, so he decides to give him the option to decline if he wanted. He doesn’t know if his best buddy –whom he knows is as overprotective as he is– would make the same concession, though. Well, he’ll have to suck it up. Stiles is a grown man.

“Take care of yourself, son.”  He says and finally yanks the door of the driver’s side open to get in.

Stiles keeps the amiable smile plastered on as he watches his father get into the vehicle and turn the ignition on. His father salutes him and then brings the car into motion as it slides away, rear lights flickering. Stiles feels the drop in temperature as the faint snow keeps falling, so he returns his hand back into the pocket of his insulated jacket and reels around, ready to walk back into the building.

“Stiles…”

Said man halts and whips around, finding Derek in one of the jackets he had brought for him before he was kicked out, top of his hair and shoulders covered in snow. He sends the man a perplexed scowl and changes the position of his head so that now is half tilting.

Derek steps towards him in deliberately long and confident strides, he grinds to a stop when they’re a few inches apart. He takes in all of Stiles: His arm that is supposed to be hanging down his chest but now tucked under the jacket, the recovering bruises blighting his pale skin with purplish shades, and small cuts scattered under his cheek and the corner of his lovely lips.

“What,” Stiles snorts, but there’s no humor in his tone. “Here to finish the job?”

Derek hardens his glare, but remains silent and his silence translated as ‘apparently, I don’t have to’ since he’s beholding Stiles’ injuries with a pair of searching eyes.

Stiles swallows his irritation, or what’s left of it because it seem it has all dissipated the moment he heard the man’s voice. He deflates in on himself and sighs, “Whatever, dude.” He said, “what’ you want?”

“To talk.” Derek deadpans.

Oh great. So now he wants to talk? Is there a point here being delivered that Stiles can’t see or what?

“About?” He demands.

“You gonna invite me in or what?” He rumbles in his deep voice.

How arrogant.

Stiles faces away for a second, regarding the fog-enveloped town and then switches to look at the man, now ushering with his head for him to follow.

It really looks like the roles have been reversed.

 

For the second time in the same month, Derek finds himself seated in Stiles’ living room and surrounded by bouquets of flowers and colorful ‘get better soon’ balloons. There’s no sight of the puppy and Derek wonders what came of the little dog, it’d actually sadden him if it turns out Stiles gave him up for adoption or something. He schools himself with admonishments to at least give the man the benefit of the doubt because he still recalls how persistent and almost resolute Stiles was about keeping the dog.

The said man had volunteered to make some tea despite his injury, and had refused any offers of assistance. Derek told him he didn’t want anything, just a glass of water, to which Stiles jeered at and hence the tea preparation.

A few minutes later, Stiles comes with a tray and two cups from which teabags are hanging. He puts everything on the coffee table between them and sits on the sofa across Derek. The latter lifts his cup and starts dipping the tea bag into the boiled water.

He remembers his trip to Mount Sanford with his departed father eleven years ago, what was really beautiful about the climb, aside from the scenery and the delight which follows the achievement of finally reaching the peak, is the silence he could hear during the hike. This silence in the room right now kind of reminds him of that time.

“How’s the arm?” He asks after placing the cup back on the table.

Stiles has removed his jacket at the door very carefully but apparently Derek busted him wince a couple of times. Adding to that, Derek didn’t ask what happened, which tells him he either knows or he simply doesn’t care. However, Derek asking if the arm is fine sparks the wheel of hope in him again. So maybe he does care a little, and Derek also must know about the boar attack since his father made sure to leave strict orders around for the boars to be put down, and the fact that he’s receiving get-well items from everyone he knows in town. He shrugs his uninjured shoulder, “fine,” he said, “just a few scratches,” huge fucking understatement, “should be fine in a few days.”

Derek rests his elbows on his thighs and twines his finger. He nods and still remains silent, wow, wasn’t he the one who said he wanted to talk? Why the heck is he making Stiles feel uncomfortable for it?

Stiles is obviously a lot weaker than he’s letting on, and with the busted arm and the words of ridicule still fresh in memory, Derek isn’t really sure anymore that coming here for the confession of his life was the wisest thing to do.

“Derek, look” the small, almost weak voice surprises him and he finds himself looking up at the man on command. “I’ve been giving this some thought, and I want you to hear me out.” Serious thought, actually, and he lost sleep a couple of nights because of this so he isn’t going to let the chance slip, it’s now or never. “Back at the hospital, I finally had time to think and I realized I’ve been wrong.” He starts, his healthy hand fiddling with the bandage on his wounded arm. The rueful expression tenderizes and his brows tremble, “I should’ve listened to you when we met again after four years and you told me to go back. I should have turned around and left.” His voice falls even fainter, “I was the one who went back against your warning, that’s why,” he lets his hand fall to his lap. This is it. He’s going to get it off his chest. “That’s why none of this is your fault.”

Derek wants to cut the man off, tell him to stop because this isn’t what he’s been planning to make the man admit, isn’t the kind of reaction he wished to elicit from him, but the wave of genuine distress emanating from the brown-haired still takes him by surprise.

“Even what happened four years ago,” Stiles feels the lids of his eyes burn as tears start to well up, “that wasn’t your fault, Der.”

The man’s tight jaw slacks.

“You were a victim, too.” He insists, “You were being manipulated and we were ambushed, Jennifer is to blame for all of this.”

Then they fall –his tears…

Derek watches how Stiles’ lips tremble as more tears stream down his battered face.

“I’m no different from her,” he suddenly sobs, “Although you isolated yourself, I kept going back, making you relive the nightmares and the things you wished to forget.” He snivels with more tears spilling from his beautiful, almond-shaped eyes. “I never realized that by making you sleep with me, you were hurting.” He lowers his head now to cry more, plentiful tears landing on his lap. “I’ve been hurting you this whole time.”

Derek’s mind is completely blank and his sense of unease grows. He’s been planning to get down on his hands and knees and bawl his sorry. Heck, he’s been ready to receive rejection no matter how it comes, but the things he’s been preparing to say ever since he decided to confess to Stiles are all gone now. The sight of Stiles blaming himself and crying for his sake and saying the most unassuming things… just how good-hearted is he going to continue to be? Derek can’t fall any deeper, God damn.

Stiles’ sniffs and sobs finally start to ebb bit by bit. He takes in a deep shaky breath and looks up, now letting out a huge sigh. “That’s why, um, I know it’s not gonna be easy but I’ve decided not to go back to the cabin.”

Derek’s face draws into a deep frown again, his stomach somersaulting inside at the news.

“I don’t want to hurt you again.” Stiles swipes at his nose with the back of his sleeve and sniffles. “It’s just… it’s hard, you know, seeing you and Scott move on while I’m the only one still stuck in the past.” He smiles sadly like he’s dismissing everything that has happened till now and, that in its own, wipes half of his life. “But it’s fine, I’ll learn how to move on and staying in this town will help.” He said, and adds, “Besides, I like it here.”

Derek slowly lowers his head, thinking that’s the end of Stiles’ tirade, it isn’t.

“These cuts can’t possibly hurt like how your heart is hurting,” tears are announcing another war again that Stiles needs to overcome, and remembering the times he caused the man unnecessary heartache makes him lose the battle. “I’m sorry.” He sobs, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have imposed, shouldn’t have invaded your privacy and I apologize for that.”

Derek waits, but Stiles’ sobs don’t come to an end.

“Stiles,” he starts with a tone of final resolution. “Every time we had sex, you’d nibble at the back of your hand.” He said, “You ever noticed?”

Stiles scowls in bare confusion.

Derek lifts up, all decided, and sits besides Stiles. He faces the man and switches to look from his eyes to his lips, “wanna kiss?”

“I did not say all that to get your pity.” Stiles says, defiantly.

Derek chews on his bottom lip, which trembles nonetheless. He looks fleetingly down, allowing his tears to break free –something he hasn’t done in years. “Forgive me, Stiles.”

Stiles finally deciphers the meaning. The kiss offer was probably a goodbye present; well, he did say he wasn’t planning on returning to the cabin again. He never thought it out, but this certainly hurts. He doesn’t want to part from this man, it’s utterly illogic. His shoulders rock as he cries again, torrents of tears showing no sign of stopping.

Derek rests their foreheads together and cries, too.

Stiles nods because, despite the cruelty of it, he’ll grow used to his decision some day, and he smiles benignly because, unlike their first separation, he is glad he and Derek will part ways without grudges. “Okay, okay.” He breathes out, “Life is too big, Derek, and we’re too small. Let’s not waste what we’ve left to live on the past.”

Derek licks his lips and remains still, his eyes now slowly parting open to hold contact with Stiles’.

“It’s ironic, silly and even stupid.” Stiles words through an innocent beam that is filled with nothing but compassion and something ethereal which the other man can’t really define. “But it seems I’m lovelorn.”

Derek feels as though something just unleashed a swarm of butterflies inside his stomach, he can’t even hear the tick-tock of the plain wall clock inside Stiles’ living room anymore. His pupils roam in Stiles’, staring into the burst of feelings making the man’s eyes glint like the Sirius before dusk.

“I love you, Derek.” With every inch of his own battered soul…

Just one more time and Derek will develop fucking asthma because his breath is taken away. The way Stiles’ silvery voice utters the words he’s never imagined someone would tell him at his face, much less Stiles himself –the man he’s been planning to confess to. He feels his brows tremble and meet across his forehead, and for a moment, he closes his eyes before he lose himself in Stiles’ eyes.

Like some emotionally-constipated asshole, he’s always evaded having to expound on unnecessary details and parts of himself, and it causes him a slight twinge of irritation when he has to succumb to heart-to-hearts and just deal with all the fucking _words_. He forces himself to speak though because he owes Stiles that much.

“For four fucking years… I’ve been trying to get you out of my head.”

Stiles tries to make out Derek’s face through his blurred vision, but all he sees is the man’s outline. The expressed words make him dizzy, and he holds off all motions because Derek better not be joking.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I wished you were dead, because that way I wouldn’t be able to hurt you if we ever met again.” He said, now pressing his lips to hold off his own tears. “I’m scared, Stiles. Every time I try to do something good, it just backfires.”

Stiles hiccups but remains attentive to the words he never, ever, imagined he’d hear, especially not from Derek.

“I’ve done horrible things to people; hypnosis or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve ended lives, your friends’ included.” He sighs shakily, like a kid tired of wailing. “But for some reason, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I tried for years, trust me; you’re just always there.”

Stiles brings his hand to Derek’s cheek and cups it, and he feels the way Derek immediately relaxes at the contact, “I won’t forgive you if you’re saying this because you’re feeling sorry.”

Derek’s eyes snap open, “Fuck no.” He seethes, “I don’t care about nightmares or guilt anymore” he said and scoots a little closer, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Stiles. I’ll go crazy if you disappear again.”

“That should be my line, bastard.” Stiles chuckles charmingly.

Derek permits the smile that tugs next at his lips, and then frowns again. “Us being together is going to bring stuff up, stuff we’re still trying so hard to forget.” He said, “It might become unbearable, and sad and lonely.”

But Stiles is already shaking his head, “Don’t care,” he said, now framing the side of Derek’s neck, “not after I got you to say the magic words.”

“That was you.”

“You’re the one who’ll go crazy if I disappear,” Stiles teases, now resting their foreheads together. “By the way, what was that about my habit during sex?”

Against himself, Derek smiles like a man drunk with love. “Wanna try kissing?”

Stiles’ playful smile falls, and is suddenly overtaken by a mad rush and pure arousal. He leans in, keeping his forehead pressed against Derek’s, and says quietly, “yea, I do.”

“Yea?” Derek asks, breathlessly. He still shifts a little to a more comfortable position. “How badly?”

Stiles feels Derek’s breath on his lips that almost sets his moan free. “So fucking badly.”

In a moment so slow, Derek leans forward that final inch and presses his mouth against Stiles’ –it’s electrifying. He feels the way Stiles melts. The way Stiles’ hand is threading through his hair is fucking amazing. He seizes the chance to apply everything he’s learned in his fantasies on Stiles, pressing and sucking and biting, and Stiles is soon unable to stifle the lewd moans.

He pulls away just a tiny bit, to see if Stiles wants this to go on, and the crease across the man’s forehead and the swollen lips and the drugged look in his eyes makes Derek rejoice and smirk. So he connects their lips again. Stiles devours his mouth like it’d cause him physical pain if they pulled away and Derek agrees wholeheartedly. He rests a hand on Stiles’ knee, parting it from its twin, the other goes to his cheek, just palming the flushed skin.

“Derek…” Stiles moans with bated breath.

Derek mumbles a fervent ‘your tongue’ and it’s all Stiles needs to part his lips, Derek plunges his tongue inside the man’s mouth and flaps it on Stiles’, enjoying the soft noises he makes. He moves that hand he has on Stiles’ cheek to the side of his bandaged neck, and accidentally presses on the wound that Stiles can’t help but let out a prolonged whimper. Derek’s cock throbs at the sound and he lifts up a little to grind against Stiles’ bulge, pushing his leg far apart.

Stiles’ head becomes faint and he fans back on the headrest of the couch they’re sitting on, and he appreciates the break Derek gives his lungs after pulling from the kiss, making his chest heave as he pants shallowly. His slightly opened eyes allow more tears free. Derek licks his upper lip, swallowing his and Stiles’ drool. He allows him only a moment’s leeway before he eats up his lips greedily again, grinding against the man’s cock protected by the fabric of his jeans.

“Umm...” Stiles mewls into the kiss, silently begging for some relief as he slides his hand to the button of his jeans, fiddling with it fanatically.

Derek smacks his hand away so he can roughly snake his hand down and unbutton it himself, but keeps his mouth on Stiles’. He unzips the chain and unfurls the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, and his cock springs free, covered in precum that has already left darkened spots on the crotch area of his jeans. Stiles also works Derek’s jeans open and takes out the angry-looking cock in his hand, sighing at the sensation. Derek interrupts the kiss to press their foreheads against each other again and looks down through the little space between their chests, blowing out hot breath on Stiles’ lips.

Stiles looks up at the man topping him with bleary, watery eyes and the way the man grunts hotly makes his cock spill more precum. Their wet breaths mix and their sighs are then overtaken by the slippery sound their cocks make at the first touch.

“Der…” Stiles keens.

Apparently, Derek gets it so he rubs their cocks together.

They both start making audible noises, Derek grunts and Stiles moans sweetly. He clings to the man with his healthy hand, desperate and shaking and Derek can’t find it in him at the moment to murmur soft assurances because he’s rooting for another sound of pain. He’s weird in the head and he knows that without anyone having to voice it out for him, but he hopes Stiles won’t deny him this. To attest that, he wraps a hand on Stiles’ neck and squeezes a little, the man chokes at that, freaking out for a second so he glares up at him with something akin to shock. Derek stops, attempting to effectively pull his hand away but Stiles is soon aborting the action.

“It’s okay” Stiles figures what Derek is doing, and although it freaks him out a little bit , he marvels at the fact that he has no qualms with getting choked by Derek, God, only Derek. “Fuck…. I want it”

Derek delights inwardly and squeezes his clasp on the already injured neck, enjoying the choked and pained noises Stiles is making, the moans as well because Derek hasn’t forgotten to rub their cocks together. The slick and wet sounds turn Stiles on more than anything else.

Something warm seeps into Derek’s hand and he looks down, from the ecstasy and the absolute rapture, at the blood soaking the gauze. He eyes Stiles’ face overtaken by utter bliss and decides not to stop. He is fucking sexy like this: covered in precum and blood and sweat… Derek will pinch himself later to make sure this isn’t just another fantasy, but for now he’ll swallow the sight in and relish every angle of it.

Not long and they’re both coming, and while Derek reigns in the stifled moan, Stiles all but whimpers wantonly.

He sits up properly and unclasps his hand from Stiles’ neck, and falls in awe at the sight of crimson staining his palm. His eyes flit to Stiles’ neck and the mess he created. Said man props his head up, bleary eyes falling on his.

He grunts at first, “There’s that look on your face again”

Derek nibbles at his bottom lip and lowers his head, “I should’ve had more self-restraint.”

“You’re a real idiot, anyone told you that before?” Stiles wonders.

“You look more the type.” He counters, “answer is no.”

Stiles half smirks, “listen” he started, now sitting up as well while cupping the side of his neck. “If I didn’t want it I’d have punched the lights outta you.”

“I can’t promise it’s gonna stop” Derek warns with a faint voice.

Stiles looks apologetic, “how silly” he said, “who said anything about me wanting it to stop.”

Derek’s lips parted open, “you really mean it?”

Stiles presses his lips together cutely and shrugs, “guess we’re both weird in the head.”

Derek scoffs and looks down for a moment, “you’re the real idiot.”

Stiles kicks him slightly, “and in need of your surgical skills, doc” he drawles, “You reopened my stitches, you asshole.”

For the first time, Derek doesn’t really feel insulted.

 

 

Derek has just finished taping the bandage across Stiles’ shoulder and neck when someone knocks on the latter’s door. They both prompt up and stare at each other before Stiles slumps with a brazen roll of his brown eyes.

“It must be Miss. Tate, music teacher at the school I work at.” He informs, now slowly struggling to rise up. He feels secretly grateful when Derek reaches over and winds his arm around his back to help him up. “I kept the dog at hers, she’s probably here to give him back.”

It’s a good thing Derek had the good grace in him to clean him before he commenced the stitching up, otherwise he’d have had to explain things the sweet music teacher never thought possible.

“Man, I’m not ready for this.” He starts a litany of mumbles to himself and his eyes dart to the doorway.

Derek falls silent as he takes in the other man’s change in demeanor. He’s not as in tune so it takes him a moment but he manages to put the pieces together as to what is exactly getting Stiles so worked up.

“’She your girlfriend?”

Stiles twirls his way with a look of distinct shock, “what, no” He denies, almost too quickly; “I mean… she did confess a couple’ days ago but I still haven’t given her my answer.”

“Want me to head her off?”

“No, don’t.” He lifts his good arm to ward off the offer –the very tempting offer. Last thing he needs is dealing with troublesome feelings, and although he appreciates her and her lovely feelings, he thinks it’s troublesome if it isn’t his mess to clean up. He isn’t saying she’s the problem, obviously he’s the one with a problem here, but she’s in the wrong place and wrong time. “She might want to come in, though, so brace yourself.”

Derek arches his bows slightly in a manner that suggests he isn't looking forward to it. He also watches how Stiles returns the sling around his back and leads himself to the main direction of the front door.

 

Stiles peers through the peephole and finds Malia Tate dressed in a floral coat and holding the puppy to her chest. He cringes. He absolutely has no idea how he can send her back without sounding like an asshole or downright condescending. He opens the door and she meets his grimace with a smile.

“Hey, Miss. Tate” he greets, faintly.

“We already talked about that habit of yours.” She says on a lively grin, “it’s Malia, and hey” she greets back, now showing him the squirming puppy. “Gosh, he’s so excited to see you.”

Stiles takes him from her and hoists him up over his good shoulder, and the puppy starts licking up his face and barking huskily.

“He was getting restless so I decided to bring him back to you,” she informs, “How’re you feeling, by the way?”

Stiles nods tiredly so she can pick up on the fatigue making him stand hunched, she probably does because next thing she’s frowning with worry.

“You sure?” she inquires, “not to be rude but you really don’t look good.”

He doesn’t feel good either, to be honest. During the time Derek was stitching up the gash on his neck, he took antibiotics and those kick in really fast and make him dizzy and nauseous. And not to mention the blood he’s lost after the fucker Derek reopened his stitches. He picks the puppy from his middle and gently flings him to the floor before he topples and empties his stomach on his fur, and he groans when the floor and the door spin in his vision.

The lady’s hands are soon rushing to keep him up, but other pair of novel hands beat her to Stiles’ middle and the man is soon lifted up by Derek. She boggles at him because, obviously, he’s just ruined her chance to be helpful, and she frowns.

“Who are you?”

He pays her no mind and pinches Stiles’ chin up so their eyes can meet, and the glazed pupils tell him that if he draws the support away, Stiles will not even care about sleeping beside the front door, on the floor. He hears the music teacher babble on about something and it’s fucking annoying, and without meaning to, he whips his face to her direction with a scathing glare that makes her recoil. Go for polite, he tells himself even though all he wants to do is cut her jugular for plotting to weave her cobs on what’s his –it’s pure, unadulterated jealousy. “Thanks for bringing Snowie. You need anything?”

She cautiously shakes her head, keeping the look in her eyes wide and wary. Something about the strange man made the hairs in her nape stand, and it’s deterring.

“Alright, then” he tells her, now getting a hold of the door handle with his other hand, “goodbye.” He slams the door shut and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it. He only wakes up from his reverie when Stiles goes limp in his arms.

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

“Mm…” Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth. He’s spread naked on Derek’s bed, there’s still gauze wrapped around his neck and around his left upper arm. He squirms, rolling his hips and causing the semen Derek’s cock spurted inside him to spill out.

Derek presses his mouth harder against Stiles’ full, plush lips, causing the man another shudder. When he pulls away, still propped on his elbow and looking down at the dazed man, he smirks. “You really like kissing.”

Stiles shakes himself out of his daze and registers the blush on his cheek, “what of it.”

Derek shrugs a shoulder, “just saying”

Stiles’ glinting eyes take in all of the other man’s face, bare hunger and love on his own. He stares at his cherry red lips as though they’d weave a spell to enchant him, and he guesses the deep kisses are the enchantment.

Derek’s eyes flick from Stiles’ to his up-curled, plump lips. The cuts have almost healed and the formerly-pronounced bruising is just a shade of fading colors now, they’re only visible in the waning or sunlight. Stiles is slowly regaining color in his face again which is a relief. His eyes always glint and Derek slowly feels like he’s being hypnotized… something close to fury flares up in his dark stare and he glowers, and it immediately scares Stiles.

“What?”

Shit, will he ever get over the past and over the fact that he was hypnotized –he wants the word to hold only positive connotations from now on.

Stiles knows how good the other man is at dissembling, more than he is, but the fact that he’s just outright shown his… whatever the heck that was that doesn’t tally with his own, it’s just unsettling. So he has no idea what he is thinking. And how much he’s hiding is really beyond him.

“Derek,” Stiles palms his cheek, so being confrontational it is. “What’s wrong?”

Derek shakes his head and leans down, hiding his face between Stiles’ shoulder and cheek. It makes the latter chuckle lovingly, permissible peace curving his lips; and he allows the embrace nonetheless, hugging the man with his bandaged arm.

The buzzing of a phone brings the moment to a stop, and Derek pulls away to sleep on his own pillow after he tucks it against the headboard while Stiles forages through the covers for the annoying phone. He finally finds it and his eyes widen at the caller’s ID on the screen.

“Shit,” he grits out, “it’s Scott.”

Derek supports the back of his head on his hand and looks up at the other’s horror-stricken face. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

Stiles’ tongue snakes out ardently and he pins Derek with a vague look before finally connecting the call, “Scotty, hey, buddy.” He listens in, and speaks again after rolling his eyes. “Okay, just wait for me. I’ll be there in a few.” He disconnects the call and lets out an unendurable sigh. “He’s unbelievable, dropping by without a prior notice.”

Derek furrows his thick brows but doesn’t comment.

Stiles returns his gaze on Derek’s, hoping to gauge a reaction but alas, Derek wasn’t changing his poker face. He flings the phone somewhere on the bed and slides out from the warm cover with consummate elegance, naked ass swinging in the air with cum dripping down his inner thighs, and he straddles Derek –knees on either side of his hips, an arm braced by his shoulder and the other hugged to his chest since he can’t lean on it yet. He takes his tongue a little out from the corner of his lips and bites on it, grinning mischievously.

Derek’s smirk is ferial at the liberal and open sprinkling of playful naughtiness, and enjoys the drama interlude as Stiles sways his ass, making sure their cocks rub.

“Waiting more won’t kill him” he tells his man, “you think you can make me cum in twenty?”

“I can make you cum in far less.” Derek drones sexily, “your stamina is a joke.”

“Hey, now.” He said, “New sexual conquests excite me.” He intones in reproach, now licking along Derek’s bulky neck and making him sigh softly. “Just the thought of your cock inside my ass makes me so fucking wet.”

Derek feels a shudder run through him soon as the whispered words fall on his ear, and he immediately immobilizes Stiles by the hip with a hand and the other goes to the puffy entrance slicked by cum. “When did you become such a massive pussy?”

“How about you shut your trap and fuck that pussy?”

Derek ignores the ridiculous pun and pushes three fingers inside at once that Stiles can’t put off the gasp and the arch of his back.

“So suddenly…” he grumbles but still moans.

He levels Stiles with an irritatingly simpering look, “Coulda fooled me.”

The wet squelching sounds Derek is causing by thrusting his fingers in and out makes Stiles blush all the way to his nape. He clasps his hand on the man’s chest, palming it out on his marble sternum. His arm starts to tire and tremble and he topples over the muscled chest and the jutting abs with a charming whimper.

Derek smiles to himself at the action and actually exults at the idea of having Stiles trembling and hot with just a touch of his fingers, it’s also very worrisome. He can’t imagine Stiles with someone else, and what’s more, he can’t imagine him hot and trembling under anyone’s touch but his and he fucking signed up for it –

“Derek!” The man, who’s been moaning and sucking on a mole between his dibs, suddenly interrupt his dark musings, propping up on his healthy arm again. “That’s enough…” he keens, “just… hurry.”

Derek catches sight of the swollen cock that looks like, with one tap, and it’d burst.

Stiles is still that man whom he hunted four years ago who could reduce his narcissistic egocentricity, which couldn’t even define love at the time, to passion and desire tinged with obsession. The gangly man whose fiery eyes used to make something in him tremble and tingle, whose persistence always broke through his merciless exterior and the depths of his depravity. But right now, he isn’t. He’s just the man he wants to ask for forgiveness and not sound defeated. The man he wants to make love to and not look weak and whom he wants to spend the rest of his life with and not be judged.

They’d –he’d tried to push his luck and tried talking Stiles into sucking him off; it was always a sight to behold. Stiles refused out flat, justifying it with his need to adapt because he still remembers the times he used to get beaten into it, which brings up the many times Derek had fucked him into submission. Derek will give him the time he needs, and for now, he will be more than satisfied fucking Stiles with the latter shagging on his lap.

He yanks his fingers out and drinks in the sight of Stiles mewling in a sweet aching sound and ejaculating over their stomachs. He chuckles longingly and gives the man’s cock a few strokes, milking whatever left.

He parts his lips to talk but Stiles’ hand clasps over his mouth.

“Don’t.” He warns, panting very deeply. “Don’t you dare.”

Derek parts his lips and licks Stiles’ fingers, “was just gonna say that was hot.”

Stiles’ alluring eyes land on Derek’s, and the way he pouts matches the temptation in his eyes it’s ridiculous. This makes it the second time this morning Derek says something corny, he figured it was a one-off but, apparently, Derek is starting to grow this into a habit. He isn’t saying he isn’t a fan, but didn’t Derek just chuckle? Which really doesn’t fall under the same heading; the guy was making fun of his stupid stamina again.

He’s gonna make him regret the whole thing.

All it takes is Stiles scraping his teeth along the edge of Derek’s jaw and moan against the skin of his neck and the man’s cock hops hard angling to drill inside Stiles’ ass. He aligns it with Stiles’ entrance and, very slowly, pushes it in. He frames the man’s ass cheeks and kneads and gropes tightly, making Stiles unable to control his whines. He starts moving his hips, thrusting up into the hot wetness that makes him groan in satisfaction; this is simply the fucking best.

“Ah, aah” Stiles is moaning atop him with his eyes looking glossy. “Yeah, oh fuck, yes…”

Derek licks his upper lip; so far, this is satisfying. He’s always loved a little pain in it, though. He grabs Stiles’ injured arm and pulls it to him, making Stiles cry out. Thing is, the gash on Stiles upper arm extends all the way to his forearm, a little below the nook area, so, because of the stitches, he can’t stretch it. Derek pulling his arm like this must feel really, really painful.

Stiles hardens his glare down at the man relishing his pain and clutches at his neck, wrapping his fingers around it and pushing those veins back in.

To punish him, Derek snaps his hips and thrusts even deeper until all of his cock is buried inside Stiles’ ass.

Stiles tightens his grip on the neck and whimpers, “So deep!” he howls, endearingly. When Derek snapped his hips again and thrust into him faster and deeper each time, making their balls slap. Stiles tried to toss his head to the back but the stitches on his neck forfeited the action and he whimpered with tears spilling down his cheeks. He’d feel Derek sighing excitedly beneath him at the whole thing. He doesn’t forget to keep his grip around the man’s neck tight as he bucks up against the cock drilling inside his ass. “Oh!” His eyes widen, as though in renewed realization, “More, Derek, fuck me more.”

Derek hisses and releases the injured arm, now he gropes Stiles’ ass cheeks again. “Just remember,” he breathed out, “you asked for it.”

Stiles moans in anticipation alone, he knows what’s going to follow.

Derek holds Stiles’ ass in the perfect angle, and then he moves his hips again, faster and deeper that the wet slaps sound so hollow. And he doesn’t fucking stop.

“Ah!” Stiles cries out, pleasurably. “Ah! Oh, God, yes! That’s it, right there, Derek. Just like that, mmm….”

Derek follows the coaching to the word. “You like that, huh?” he urges, fervently.

“Love it,” Stiles moans, “love it when you fuck me so hard like this, makes me go crazy for your dick.”

Literally too, it seems.  Derek muses on a smirk.

He loves Stiles’ new habit of wrapping his arm around his neck and pressing his nose against his cheek, he loves it to the bone. Stiles’ breath falls hard on his jaw every time he gaps and moans and even grunts. He manages to keep this up longer enough for Stiles’ cock to cum again before he’s also sending his cum inside the man, soaking his ass and inner thighs.

They both cling to each other, hugging tightly and riding out the intense afterglow.

They’re slowly sinking back under the covers when the sound of the phone’s vibrations goes off –muffled by the covers– and followed by the spectacular scattering noise that suggests the phone has just fallen from the bed and onto the ground. It startles the puppy who was napping by the fireplace.

Stiles bites down on his bottom lip and sighs, “I’m gonna kill him”

Derek chuckles darkly and motions with his head, “you should go.”

“I know” Stiles saiys, faintly. He props up a little, and scans the inside of the cabin. “Don’t want to, though.”

“Don’t want you too, either.” Derek is fast to admit, and that serious expression ups Stiles to leave the bed entirely because he’s weak to temptation and he can’t risk leaving his friend in the street.

 

Derek watches as Stiles walk towards the bathroom with the cum, which he spurted inside him, dripping down his thighs. The sight alone makes him half hard again. Stiles disappears inside the bathroom to obviously wash up, and the sound of water splashing asserts his prediction.

He does remember Scott, the puppy-eyed brunet with the crooked chin whom he ordered to be locked and looked after by Peter, and he doesn’t remember interacting with him much either. He’s glad. There’s something more than remorse and nightmares in his statement. There’s relief. He doesn’t carry memories of doing Stiles’ friend harm so the fact that he can look the man in the eyes and feel the guilt he carries towards _him_ the only thing creating a turmoil is really consoling.

But with Scott here, Stiles might not have a chance to come see him, and neither will he. He hangs his hope in the thought that maybe the guy isn’t going to spend long in this town, and he and Stiles will continue to see each other again. The pinched expression that must be tugging at his face now is the sign of his inner fears; Stiles accepted this life in the shadows, with him. To take a leap like that and toss himself into the unknown and leave much of his life behind… it’s a death sentence. He knows that as long as he’s with him, Stiles could never have normal.

Stiles exits the bathroom and shifts around for his clothes which they’d torn off each other in their haste to get to the bed last night. He starts putting them on and ignores the deep stare concentrating on his every move, eating him up and making his fingers tremble and fail to button his jeans.

“What’ you doing, you bastard” –he looks charmingly at the other– “planning to peel off my clothes with just your eyes?”

 “You have any objections?”

“I don’t think it works, you lil’ piece of shit.” Stiles bites his tongue and grins teasingly. “Try something else.” Saying so, he palms his bulge slightly and licks his upper lip very slowly, suggestively.

It takes all in Derek’s power not to bolt from the bed and lurch forward to pin Stiles down to the floor and fuck his brains out.

“Your friend just called again.” He grumbles. “So go to him, and get the fuck out of my place.”

Stiles puts the jacket on next and ruffles his hair. Then, he walks up to the bed to collect his phone from the ground. He hides the cock-blocking contraption in his pocket and approaches Derek’s side. “I’m gonna miss your dick.”

Derek scoffs and shakes his head, “gonna miss your ass” he counters, “you gonna put any dildos in there if it gets lonely?”

Stiles leans in, the playful look over his face changing and falling into a frown, like he wants to cry and wail his eyes out. Then he cups Derek’s cheek. “Only you, Derek” he whispers, “toy or not, game or not, it’ll always be just you.”

See?

He’s breaking through Derek’s façade again, saying the corniest crap…

He pulls Stiles down for a heated kiss and doesn’t pull away until the other keens for some air. He beholds his dazed face and swollen lips, and again, all he wants to do is pull the man to his bed again.

“Go now.”

Stiles smiles sheepishly and nods, “see ya.” He waves over his shoulder and walks up to the front, and he doesn’t vacate the cabin until he’s slipped his feet into his boots and blew a kiss to Derek who throws a pillow at him.

 

Derek shakes his head on a fading smile, he sits up and looks towards the fireplace where Snowie is sprawled on the chair pad.

 

Stiles is still smiling shyly and it somehow overcomes the cold that enwraps him.

 

This, whatever it is they’ve etched like footprints on snow, might be gone with the upcoming change in the air. None of them can tell for how long this could last for them, this burning passion that is, despite everything, still aflame. It’s supposed to be comforting; they do take comfort in the passionate nights they share tangled together, tasting and melting in each other… but it’s hard to push away doubts when their rival is their past.

The past is part of their present together, but there’s always that wishful thinking that with enough good memories, those shadows haunting them will be overwritten or just… go away. So far, it hasn’t happened. The words ‘may’ and ‘someday’ become more comforting than those passionate nights.

More than the past, there’s the world; biggest things threatening their small sphere, which consists of just the two of them, to be forced under the lights and condemned. It’s easy for the other party to point accusatory fingers and return a verdict of ‘guilty’ because the two of them and what they have are beyond understanding… unsavorily disreputable when it simply just can’t be labeled. But it’s hard to be accepted.

Neither of them acknowledges the perpetually lingering darkness they have to wallow in and hide under, but they both know it’s far more merciful than the world could ever be.

What offers consolation, though, in the cold and dark abyssal depths of this pit are the gentle touches and radiating smiles and the whispered assurances they give each other in their nightly privacy.

 

With that in mind, they know the next wait is going to be so worth it…


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up, bitches! Back after six, seven months? I see that this has reach 500 kudos! well, ain't that the best welcome party or what ;D  
> If you still haven't made love to kudos, now is your chance.  
> Next chapter is steamy hot so prepare your perverted hearts.

 

 

 

 

Stiles looks up at the sky layered with a chaotic array of puffy, marigold red clouds. He feels heat with the first lick of summer being provided to him by the sun slowly sinking beyond the horizon. Sunsets are the best thing this town has to offer. His lips twitch a little into a faint smile before he parts them to blow a breath, but since the temperature has been rising lately, the vapor is not quite visible.

He’s been at the same café he usually frequents at to finish a book or cross words to pass the time, merely in an attempt to escape routine or insistent thoughts of what tomorrow may bring.

This marks the fourth month since he reunited with Derek, and he can’t believe it, but they’ve been very intimate ever since. He spends most of his weekends at Derek’s, and when it’s a holiday, Derek takes the initiative to drop by his place. They haven’t been able to talk about any plans of going outside town. There haven’t been any talks of plans period. Derek is too anxious to face the outside world and Stiles doesn’t want to force him into it. It hasn’t even been a year so he is biting down on his knuckles and bearing with it for the man’s sake. However, it’s starting to smother him.

Stiles likes to think of himself as a bird. He doesn’t like to be confined to one place, and although this town has a lot of things he is comfortable with, it is still stifling to not have any change of airs.

Okay, here’s the thing: A few weeks ago, _way_ after Scott had left unable to deal with the flashbacks, Stiles rode the borrowed bike to Derek’s cabin but didn’t find the man. He found a note, though, addressed to him with a blunt text that read [I’m going away for a few. Don’t bother coming back next weekend.]. That was the drop that spilled the cup and heralded this series of compulsory freedom seeking ideas. It wasn’t impulsive. He didn’t just wake up one day and started arguing about wanting to leave town for a few days. But he’d been bringing it up to Derek even prior to his sudden departure, he had been dropping hints.

Stiles followed the note to the word and didn’t appear at Derek’s place last weekend, but guess what, he isn’t going to even today. It’s Friday and it’s usually the day Stiles gets his things and heads to Derek’s. Not this time. Derek needs to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around him, and if he wishes to treat Stiles like a robot on auto mode that would do all his bidding, then he has another thing coming.

Stiles isn’t so frail, and although he loves Derek, he isn’t going to indulge each and every whim of his.

 

He fumbles with the keys to his apartment, opens its door and enters. Snowie, bigger and covered in whitish golden fur, comes rushing to him with his tongue lolling sideways and his tail wagging happily. Stiles ruffles his mane and straightens up to take off his sneakers. He lumbers towards the living room with his eyes opened to masts. He is worn out and, more than a trip outside town right now, he would love a back massage. He drops on the sofa and tosses the keys on the coffee table.

Actually, there’s something else that is constantly nagging at him: Last Friday marked Derek’s birthday which is something he had dug out from the precinct. It was illegal but his father’s name managed to get a yellow folder open before him and a tap on the shoulder to please hurry it up before I lose my fucking job. Stiles had wanted to make use of the info and spend the night with Derek somewhere far away from town. It came as a blow to the guts when Derek upped and left without leaving coordinates of his whereabouts behind for Stiles to retrace.

Stiles has looked at this from every angle alright, and the only thing that he came up with is the long standing fact that Derek can’t and won’t trust him.

 

Dismissing the disheartening thought, Stiles levers up with a groan and heads to the kitchen. He takes out a bow of last night’s cheese spaghetti from the fridge and slips it inside the microwave. As he waits for the leftovers to be reheated, a knock on the door brings him out of his musings.

Snowie rushes to the front door, barking excitedly and he only does that when Derek is behind that door. Stiles scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, “I’m coming!” he shouts, wearily.

 

And, long behold, Derek, dressed in a leather jacket and bleached jeans, smirks after Stiles yanks the door open. Snowie slides between Stiles and the wall and leaps at Derek who crouches down to rub his furry, dangling ears.

“Hey, buddy” he intones. “Here’s one looking happy to see me.”

Stiles breathes out through his nose at the hint aimed at him and crosses his arms over his chest, “what’ you doing here, man?” the reiteration of that question is becoming so annoying by now.

Derek’s smirk starts to gradually grow fainter as he lifts up. “Why ‘you so cross?”

Stiles dares to pinch a brow at the absurdity of the question, and he opens his mouth to say something but the timer of the microwave beeps and hinders his effort. He rolls his eyes and walks back inside, leaving the door open. He rushes to the kitchen to take his dinner out.

Derek ushers to dog to follow in as he also enters and closes the door behind him. He usually removes whatever he’s donned over his sweater or Henley before making his way to the living room, but he has this inkling that today it’ll be wiser if he doesn’t.

 

Stiles is stumped. He doesn’t know why he didn’t punch Derek across his throat the moment he made it look like it was just Stiles blowing things out of proportion like some over jealous wife, when they both know Derek vanishing off-radar always sent Stiles to turmoil of emotions of fear, worry and anxiety. It’s his fault, all of it. Why should Stiles get ammunition for something he absolutely has the right to, like getting pissed!

He opens the microwave’s lid to take out the bowl, but he doesn’t count on finding it hot and it ends up falling from his fingers and clattering on the floor, cheese and spaghetti spilling and smearing the panel. He hisses an expletive as though it was the bowl that placed itself in the microwave to burn his hand and so it deserved the cussing.

“Here, let me see.” Derek is at his side in a blink.

Stiles holds off all motions and watches with vague wonder how Derek takes the burned fingers gently in his hands for a better examination.

“Do you have any butter, or eggs?” he suddenly asks.

Stiles wrenches his hands from the other’s, “why, we making an omelet?” he scoffed, “I’m fine. I’ll just ice it.”

Derek stands bridled at the way Stiles yanked his hands from him, but eventually squares his shoulders and rolls his chin, “might give you frostbite, especially with your skin sensitive like that.”

“Why ‘you care, anyway?” Stiles rears up, face crunched in distaste.

“You PMSing, or what?” Derek glowers, “why’ you being such a bitch?”

Stiles’ been applying a wet cloth on his burn, but at the venomous word, he tosses the damn thing to the counter and braces a hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the sink. “Where were you last week?”

Derek hides his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shrugs, “that’s none of your business.”

Stiles grins soundlessly, “how typical.” He marvels, “Your work is none of my business, what you do for a hobby is none of my business, now this?” the grin quickly morphs into a furious scowl, “then why the hell are you still here, Der?”

“I left you a note, last time.” Derek trails off, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“That means zilch if I had no idea where you’d been!”

“You want to control me, is that it?” Derek’s smoky voice bellows.

Stiles’s tired. He’s sore. If Derek’s spoiling for a fight, he’ll give him one.

“Control you,” he echoes on a deliberate huff, “you make it seem like the only thing I gain from what I do and what I say is hurting you” Which, son of a bitch, has he noticed his behavior for the past month? “Are you insane or what?”

“I don’t see why else you’d keep poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Derek retaliates just as quickly, “I told you it was none of your business, so drop it.”

“I have a right to know, okay?”

“You have a right to now?” Derek snorts, “why, because we sleep together?”

Stiles’s mouth gapes as he frowns, “you don’t mean that, Der, we’ve been through this before”

Derek’s chest rises and he lets out a shaky breath. “I” he starts, “can we just forget it?”

“No, I’m not gonna forget it.” He insists, “You don’t get to treat me like this and get away with it. You have no right.”

“I know.” Derek grouses, “but if you minded your own, we wouldn’t have to always have this conversation.”

“Yea?” Stiles urges and fetches the cloth and tosses it at the man, “fuck you, okay? I’m not desperate.” He reminds, “Now leave.”

Derek snakes his tongue out to lick his lips, “you don’t want me to leave”

“Is that a threat?” Stiles can’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to keep playing this game?” Derek simply said, “if you can’t give me this much space, then it’s better if we, you know, take a break.”

Stiles’s face sags and he wills himself to keep a lid on all the emotions of hurt and betrayal wanting to erupt. “You want us to break up, is that it?”

Derek shrugs half-heartedly.

“Who is it?” Stiles demands.

“Who’s who?”

“The one you’ve been seeing, who is it?”

Derek clicks his lips and rolls his eyes, “there’s no one.”

“Aha,” Stiles’s tone is incredulous, “so what’s got your panties in a wad, you suddenly feel freeing inspiration?”

“’Because of you!” Derek gesticulates to all of Stiles on a howl, takes a moment to calm his breath before he speaks again “you’re being controlling and obsessed, and, honestly, I’m getting tired of it.”

“I wouldn’t be controlling and obsessed if you included me in your life, not just your bed!”

“Yea, well, maybe I like my privacy?”

“That’s just the thing, Derek, you like your privacy too fucking much!” Stiles seethes, out of breath, “Even more, you act like you don’t care anymore. You don’t express interest, you don’t show up when I ask you to and you just stopped asking altogether.” He grouches, bitingly. “This isn’t how it works, okay? You act as though you know everything about me so it’s ok to draw the line.”

“But I _do_ know everything about you.” Derek simply states.

Stiles stops mid-rant and holds eye-contact with Derek. He clears his throat, collectes himself and wraps his arms over his chest again, maybe to defend himself from more painful declarations. “You want to draw the line now?”

Derek scrubs his nape and winces.

“Have you lost interest in me?” His voice is calm, so calm, the same calm that precedes a storm.

Derek gulps, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

There was a set of cutlery on top of the counter with other tableware that Stiles punches after balling his fist. Glass shards cut his skin and scatter to the floor, adding to the mess he made earlier. “How it’s relevant?” he echoes, “are you nuts?”

Derek furrows his thick brows. “You’re still healing from your wounds, don’t be reckless.”

“You didn’t deny my conclusion about you losing interest in me, asshole.” He reminds, dismissing Derek’s concern because everything isn’t just black and white anymore, not after Derek dropped this bomb.

“Doesn’t mean it’s true,” Derek hollers, “Look, I’m just irked by your nonstop nagging and interrogation about my whereabouts. What I do with my free time is my business. Why can’t you wrap your head around it?”

Stiles rakes a hand through his hair and nibbles at his bottom lip.

Derek takes a non-thought step towards him, a crease marring his forehead. “Let me see your hand,” he offers, “blood is dripping.”

Stiles looks down at said hand impaired by angry cuts and covered by blood that’s still seeping out from the small gashes. He slumps to the wall and slides down. His legs stretch in front of him and his hands drop on his thighs.

Derek crouches beside him and, for the second time, takes Stiles’ injured hand in his. Ironically, the burn marks aren’t what they needed to worry about anymore. “What a mess”

Stiles scoffs slightly, “we are, aren’t we?”

“I was talking about your hand.” Derek corrects on a snipe.

Stiles rolls his eyes tiredly and faces away, “whatever.”

Derek stands up and washes his hand in the sink, then fills up a cup and crouches beside Stiles again. He starts pouring the water on the cuts and the way Stiles whimpers in a small voice breaks his heart. For the first time, he can’t find satisfaction in Stiles’ pain.

“Gonna bring the first aid kit, don’t move anywhere.”

Stiles vaguely registers Derek disappearing inside the bathroom. There are black dots swimming in his vision and a dull pain radiating from his hand. He can’t believe Derek wants to call this off because he doesn’t like sharing a little bit about himself. They’re supposed to be partners. They’re sharing what no one in this world does. They are special, for fuck’s sake.

He’s been losing sleep, thinking and worrying where Derek had gone off to. If he was safe or hurt, or if he was caught. He’s been living nightmare horrors during the day as well. This is what he gets for his trouble?

He feels a tap on his cheek that prompts him to open his eyes which he didn’t know he closed. He groggily turns his head to face Derek who’s already applying sterile gauze on the wounds.

“These needs stitches, Stiles.” He tells him with a sad frown, “want me to do it or do you want to go to the ER?”

Stiles groans and waves his other hand dismissively, “I’ll be fine, so just wrap it in gauze.”

“The bleeding is not stopping, okay?” Derek rumbles, “Stop being reckless about your own health and make a pick.”

Stiles glares at him like he is utterly offended. He pushes him off and scrambles up to his feet.

Derek mimics his action and finds himself straining up. “What?”

Stiles shakes his head dazedly and ushers to the man to hand him the box near his foot. “Hand it over,” he said, “I’ll take care of this. I don’t want you to think that I’m controlling you or anything.”

Derek blows a heavy sigh, “Stiles” he starts, “don’t be like this.”

Said man glowers again, adding more heated fury into it. “Excuse me?” he sneers, but then his expression falters because he’s too tired for this crap. “You know what, Derek, I don’t care.” He finally admits, “Apparently, I’m the only one trying to make this work and, honestly, I don’t even know why when you’re so adamantly twisting this to make me the weird one.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You don’t want me to have anything to do with your life, Der” he jogs the man’s memory again for the third time today, “so every time I ask, or every time I insist you give me something, I look like the bad guy.”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face. Coming to think of it, he looks uncomfortable in his own skin. His face is a little pale, paler than usual. He looks worn out and angry. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles’ receptors come to a stop. What was that just now, an apology? Did Derek just apologize?

Their eyes meet again and silence prevails for a beat.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I admit I’ve been acting childish about the whole thing.”

Stiles says nothing in response because, well, Derek is finally talking.

“There are a few things, however, that I’d like to keep to myself.” He confesses, “But the way I shut you off was rude and heartless, and I realize now that I made a mistake.”

Stiles nods absentmindedly, processing the words.

“I don’t want to break up,” he said, “I said that while angry and I never mean the things I say while angry.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets and his shoulders slump. “I’ll say it now so you won’t stress over it, there’s just you and I don’t even think I have the capacity to look at someone else. I meant it when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you so let’s not fuck this up because we have our heads far up our asses.”

 

Stiles eventually allowed the man to stitch up his cuts, and is now in the bathroom, soaking inside the tub.

This isn’t healthy: the two of them, as long as they’re together, they’re going to bring each other pain. Derek already acknowledged this and even warned Stiles about it, but he was just too delirious to heed the warning. Maybe the man’s also right when he says it’s Stiles’ fault for being intrusive and nosy. He can’t help it, okay? He loves the man to an unhealthy degree and he just wants to be included in his life as much as he allows the other into his. You know what, maybe Stiles is the one who is being reasonable here. He knows a happy relationship –as happy as it can get with the two of them– can’t be maintained if the two parties aren’t talking things out.

He hears a knock, muffled, and immediately assumes it’s someone at the front door. He knows Derek won’t answer because the guy is anthrophobic, so he lifts up from the lukewarm water to see who’s knocking at his door but Derek’s voice stops him.

“It’s just the pizza guy.”

Stiles leaves the bathroom anyway after wrapping a towel around his waist. He ambles to his bedroom in a search for nice clothes to wear.

This is probably a trust thing; it has nothing to do with Stiles being nosy, and it doesn’t have to do with Derek acting cagey. They just can’t trust each other, well, Derek more than Stiles. If that’s really the case, Stiles should be the one raising hackles here. He was the one kidnapped, tortured and all that jazz. He’s not. He allowed Derek into his place, his bedroom… What else is he supposed to do to show his loyalty, and that he can be trusted?

 

When he returns to the living room, he finds that Derek has left him his share of the pizza in its box before vanishing inside the bathroom. He goes to the kitchen to grab a beer and, fuck, his heart swells at the realization that Derek has cleaned the mess of broken glass shards and spilled cheese spaghetti. He feels like he wants to bawl his eyes out. They’re both hurt, tired and just… love hurts so much.

 

Derek eyes his haggard reflection in the mirror and frowns. Maybe it’s time to talk to Stiles about these things weighing him down mentally. Maybe it’d become easier to bear if he shared his luggage with the person his shares body heat with; and wasn’t it a blow to the balls when he referred to Stiles as his fuck buddy. How hurt he’d looked. Derek is wronging that man over and over and when Stiles finally manned up to defend his honor, Derek landed this low blow.

He is despicable.

 

Stiles isn’t quite positive that Derek is going to spend the night but a part of him sure hopes so. He chances a glance at the bathroom’s closed door before marching back to his bedroom. He places a chair in front of the bed, turns the lamps on and prepares a throw on the bed. If Derek decides to stay over, then there are a few thought-pattern previously held that they need to get out of the way.

 

The only source of light providing illumination in the room is the lamp.

Silently, Derek peels off his clothes, one piece of garment falling to the floor after another until he is standing completely naked.

Stiles requested this the moment Derek came looking for him. He also did notice the new Triskelion tattoo between the man’s shoulder blades. And as much as he wants to know the story behind it, he doesn’t want Derek throwing accusations again and calling him nosy, so he keeps his curiosity to himself.

Derek followed the ushered order and rests on the padded chair Stiles placed in front of him across the bed, and signs to him to proceed whatever he’s planned.

 

Stiles has picked out his black bandana from the drawer and now folds it over Derek’s eyes from behind. Not too tight so phosphenes wouldn’t explode in his eyes. He takes a step to the back, just admiring his handiwork. Derek’s outline shaded by the faint light, broad shoulders not fitting in the length of the backrest of the chair and his hair rendered unkempt because of the piece of clothing keeping him from seeing what’s happening. He lifts a hand, the recently injured hand and brushes the tips of his fingers over Derek’s cheek. The reverberant shudder makes him proud. He ghosts his fingers over the flushed skin and then over his mouth, skimming quivering fingers on the lips and parting them slightly. He retrieves his hand before there’s even a reaction to that. His other healthy hand mimics the same ministration, same slow and thorough contact. He glides his hands to Derek’s hair next, kneading the scalp with a little forceful press of his fingertips until the tied man sighs. He fists a lock of raven-black hair and tugs gently, eliciting more purrs and sighs from Derek. Stiles deliberately grazes the man’s red ears and nape with his pinky and thumbs, then just as slowly, slides his hands down the length of Derek’s arm right to the large hands resting on muscular thighs. He twines their fingers together, and instead of repeating the process, Stiles pulls the hands captured in his behind the backrest of the chair. He ties Derek’s wrist with the latter’s belt.

He palms out his hands on the visible area of Derek’s back, and starts a new sequence of caressing to the skin. His hands move smoothly to his shoulders, his collar and down to his dibs. He strokes the nipples that are already standing erect. He goes lower to Derek’s abs, fondling softly, then returns his hands to the nipples.

Derek’s chest rises and falls, muscled dibs go evidently higher the deeper he breathes and exhales.

Stiles brings his plump lips to the man’s nape, kissing in earnest. He can feel his own breathing uneven and fanning on the man’s skin to wreak havoc. He slide out his tongue and licks one of those red ears, and wet noises soon break the silence interrupted by sporadic sighs.

“Do you trust me?” He whispers in the ear he’s licking, sonorous and sensual. “Der, do you really trust me?”

Derek gulps and his Adam apple bobs. He nods wordlessly.

 

 


	18. ANNOUNCEMENT

New chapter will be updated in 2019


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